FLOWER- 
O^THE-GORN 


SR  CROCKETT 


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THE  LIBRARY 

OF 

THE  UNIVERSITY 

OF  CALIFORNIA 

LOS  ANGELES 

GIFT 


Willlarn  P.   Wreden 


Digitized  by  the  Internet  Archive 

in  2008  with  funding  from 

IVIicrosoft  Corporation 


http://www.archive.org/details/flowerothecornanOOcroc 


FLOWER-O'-THE-CORN 


Flower-o'-the-Corn 

By 

S.   R.   Crockett 

Author  of 

The  Stickit   Minister,   The   Firebrand 

The   Banner  of  Blue,   i^c. 


ALDI 


MCClure,  Phillips  &  C9 

^   e  w      York 
M  C  M  I  I  I 


Copyright,    igoj,    by 
S.    R.    CROCKETT 


Published,      April,    1903,  R 


4-513; 

n  y  Q 


CONTENTS 


I.   Frances 

II.   The  Chaplain  of  Ardmillan's  Regiment 

III.  My  Lord  Duke     . 

IV.  Pierre  the  Wagoner 
V.   The  Road  to  Keltonhill  . 

VI.   The  Mysteries  of  Love 
VII.    The  Chief  of  the  Camisards 
VIII.    My  Daughter  Yvette 
IX.   To  Love  and  to  Hate 
X.   A  Woman's  Wits  . 

XI.   The  Judas-Tree  Lets  Fall  a  Blossom 
XII.   The  Spy-Hole  on  the  Stairway 

XIII.  Certain  Spokes  in  Certain  Wheels 

XIV.  The  Maison  Rouge      .... 
XV.   The  Hour  before  the  Dawn    . 

XVI.   Check! 

XVII.    Under  which  Queen,  Bezonian  ? 
XVIII.   The  Dangerous   Play   of  Brother  and 

TER 

XIX.   The  Market  Rate  of  Folly 
XX.    The  Mystery  of  the  Crystal  . 
XXI.   Madame  la  Markchale 


Sis- 


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VI 


CONTENTS 


XXII.   The  Cradle  of  Saint  Veran 

XXIII.  Apples  of  Gold  in  Baskets  of  Silver 

XXIV.  The  Sweetness  of  Stolen  Waters 
XXV.   A  Springe  to  Catch  Woodcocks 

XXVI.    Flower-o'-the-Corn  Finds  Friends 
XXVII.   The  Thing  Most  Wonderful  in  All 

Worlds        .... 

XXVIII.   Vae  Victis!      .... 

XXIX.    The  Ferry  of  Beaucaire     . 

XXX.   Apples  of  Sodom    . 

XXXI.  Jean  Cavalier's  Last  Temptation 

XXXII.   Days  that  Come  not  Twice 

XXXIII.  The  Resin-Gatherer's  Hut 

XXXIV.  Yvette  Drinks  from  Her  Own 
XXXV.    The  Fine  Gold  Grown  Dim 

XXXVI.   Gathering  up  the  Fragments 
XXXVII.   Vice  Providence  Superseded 
XXXVIII.    The  Easy  Descent  of  Avernus 
XXXIX.   The  Spider's  Last  Web 
XL.    A  Flower  of  Evil 
XLI.   The  Princess  of  Butterflies 
XLII.   The  Gospel  of  Loving  . 
XLIII.    Eve  and  Lilith 
XLIV.    "Kiss  Me,  My  Husband"     . 
XLV.    Good  Catholics 
XLVI.   The  Night  Looks  into  the  Pavilion 
XLVII.   The  Hunting  of  a  Man 


Cup 


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FLOWER-O'-THE-CORN 


FRANCES 

"     A      YOUNG  man,"  said  my  Lord  Duke  to  Maurice 
/\         Raith,  "  is  never  the  worse  for  being  like  his 

y  V  neighlDors.  He  ought  to  take  his  tone  from  his 
time.  Let  him  be  no  precisian,  no  enthusiast,  no  stander 
upon  punctiHo,  but  rather  a  man  of  affairs."  Here  the 
Duke  paused,  and  his  fingers  tapped  the  folding-chair 
meditatively.  "  Once,  sir,  there  was  a  great  lady,  very  fair 
and  very  gracious,  who  assisted  myself  with  a  considerable 
sum  of  money.  I  never  found  myself  any  the  worse  for 
it.  No  !  not  a  whit  the  worse — in  pocket,  richer.  In 
reputation,  well — I  had  a  sword  at  my  side.  So,  Captain 
Maurice,  you  have  the  figure,  you  have  the  dash — as  far 
as  mere  man  may  judge,  you  have  the  face.  Do  not  by 
over-niceness  miss  your  chances.  Receive  it  from  one 
who  knows.  Take  your  day!  Take  your  day!  Man  is 
young  but  once,  remember.  The  time  will  come  all  too 
soon  when  nectar  and  ambrosia  shall  have  lost  their  relish. 
Kiss,  my  lad,  while  you  have  kissing  favor.  For  by-and- 
by  fair  maids  will  begin  to  look  over  your  shoulder  at  the 
lad  who  comes  up  behind  you.  Aye,  all  too  soon!  All 
too  soon !  " 

So  to  Captain  Maurice  Raith  (late  of  my  Lord  Cutts's 
regiment)  spake  his  newly-nominated  Grace  of  Marlbor- 
ough. The  allied  troops  lay  on  the  green  braeface  just 
over  the  Castle  of  Crevecoeur.  The  Meuse  flowed 
placidly  beneath  like  a  river  seen  in  a  dream.  There  were 
six  secretaries  writing  hard  at  it  in  the  next  room,  but  for 
all  that  my  lord  was  finding  time  to  bestow  the  advice  of 
experience  upon  his  favorite  aide. 

3 


4  FLOWER-O'-THE-CORN 

The  mind  of  the  great  captain  was  far  from  easy. 

Nimeguen  was  still  a  cause  of  anxiety.  Among  them- 
selves the  Dutch  still  disagreed — as  usual.  Blenheim  lay 
far  to  the  south,  a  peaceful  hamlet,  dreaming  among  its 
vines,  and  one  well-bred  youth,  in  Mr.  Maurice's  opinion, 
occupied  a  position  of  more  importance  in  the  movements 
of  the  allied  armies  than  Eugene  the  Prince,  and  a  dozen 
Dutch  generals  with  names  that  sounded  like  "  Kink- 
host." 

So,  with  these  words  ringing  in  his  ears,  and  in  his 
heart  a  great  willingness  to  follow  his  Chief's  precepts, 
Maurice  Raith  took  his  way  without  the  bounds  of  the 
camp.  It  was  harvest  time,  which  in  that  country  hap- 
pens in  the  high  flood-tide  of  the  July  heats.  All  Flan- 
ders and  Picardy  were  veritable  Fields  of  the  Cloth  of 
Gold,  in  which  blue  blouses  swung  and  swayed,  and 
scythes  flashed  circlewise  in  the  high  bold  sunshine. 

It  was  thus  that  he  first  saw  her,  blue  and  white  among 
the  gold,  and  ever  after  in  his  heart  of  hearts  he  called  her, 
like  those  others,  "  Flower-o'-the-Corn."  Common  folk 
in  England  call  a  certain  gay,  laughing,  defiant  bloom 
"  Cornflower."  In  France  little  children  leap  up  and 
shout  aloud,  "  Bluet!  Bluet!  "  when  they  catch  sight  of 
it.  For  it  is  a  precious  thing  to  them.  And  Maurice 
Raith,  who  in  answering  my  lord's  letters  had  a  genius 
for  finding  the  right  word,  knew  at  once  that  for  this 
girl  whom  he  met  among  the  harvest  fields  there  was  no 
other  name  possible  but  just  "  Flower-o'-the-Corn."  So 
Flower-o'-the-Corn  she  was  till  Time  grew  old. 

It  was  the  age  of  the  Grand  Louis — the  Fourteenth  of 
the  name  (Louis  the  least  of  all  great  kings  and  great 
men),  and  question  and  answer  were  still  quick  and 
straight  as  the  give-and-take  of  sword-play.  That  is,  save 
about  the  Court  of  the  King,  where  all  things  grow  natu- 
rally crooked  as  the  head  of  a  thorn  stick  that  is  cut  from 
the  hedge-root  to  fit  the  hand  of  him  who  cuts  it. 

But  of  this  pride  of  life  in  high  places  we  shall  see 
little,  having  for  the  most  part  to  do  with  the  living  and 


FRANCES  5 

dying  of  poor  men  embattled  against  the  powers  of  this 
world,  against  spiritual  wickednesses  in  high  places — to- 
gether with  the  strange  ever-new  to-and-fro  of  life — and 
especially  with  what  men  will  do  for  love,  each  accord- 
ing to  his  spirit  and  his  understanding  of  the  meaning 
and  inwardness  of  the  word.     Such  is  our  preamble. 

Flower-o'-the-Corn  stood  up,  her  hands  clasped  lightly 
behind  her.  There  was  a  bunch  of  blossoms  between 
them  which  she  had  just  gathered,  and  she  stopped  short 
in  the  song  she  was  singing — as  a  bird  pulses  out  the 
gladness  of  its  heart  and  the  vivid  brevity  of  life.  Mau- 
rice thought  that  he  had  never  seen  so  fair  a  thing — no, 
not  in  the  dreams  of  the  night — as  this  maid  who  fronted 
him  suddenly  among  the  waving  cornlands  of  the  Meuse 
valley. 

A  low  white  horizon,  pearl-gray  almost  to  the  zenith, . 
the  heat  of  an  early  autumn  throbbing  almost  audibly 
through  it,  the  hum  of  bees  languid  on  the  ear.  It  was, 
as  I  say,  July,  and  the  Duke  was  just  settling  down  for 
the  second  time  in  front  of  that  famous  town  of  Namur, 
the  strongest  fortress  of  all  those  Lowlands  Low,  to 
which  the  folk  of  every  country  in  Europe  come  as  to 
a  cockpit  to  arrange  their  quarrels  and  to  fight  their  bat- 
tles. For  these  are  the  things  that  make  the  flat  lands 
famous — to  wit,  Flemish  mares,  Dinant  copper-workers, 
ugly  women,  and  the  finest  battlefields  in  the  world. 

Yet  nothing  was  less  in  the  mind  of  Maurice  Raith 
than  maidens  fair  or  maidens  Flemish,  as  he  strolled  out 
into  the  cornfields  to  cool  his  brain  after  toiling  all  the 
morning  writing  the  Duke's  letters  and  listening  with  one 
ear  to  the  great  Captain's  advice.  For  my  Lord  Marl- 
borough had  taken  a  fancy  to  the  young  man,  and  so  for 
the  most  part  kept  him  hard  at  work,  while  he  permitted 
the  gold-barred  ornamentals  of  his  staff  to  disport  them- 
selves in  Brussels  along  the  shady  side  of  the  Grande 
Place,  or  to  ogle  the  maids  of  the  city  from  under  the 
lacework  turrets  of  the  Town  Hall. 

So  it  chanced  that,  in  a  field  a  mile  or  two  bevond  the 


6  FLOWER-O'-THE-CORN 

limits  of  the  camp,  Maurice  Raith,  sauntering  heart-free, 
suddenly  heard,  as  it  were,  the  carolUng  of  a  bird.  The 
road  in  which  he  stood  was  sunk  a  Httle  below  the  sur- 
rounding fields,  as  is  the  wont  of  the  provinces  of  Ar- 
dennes— the  banks  steep  and  of  crumbling  yellowish 
ochre,  with  dark  green  plumes  of  broom  at  the  top,  feath- 
ering over  and  making  a  shadow  pleasant  to  the  wayfarer 
all  the  high  summer.  Here  it  was  that  he  heard  the  sweet 
lilt  of  a  girl's  voice  singing  as  to  herself. 

Quick  at  the  sound  Maurice  sprang  at  the  steep  face 
of  the  bank  as  he  would  have  done  at  an  intr'enchment. 
With  one  impetuous  movement  he  burst  through  the 
broom,  and  lo!  he  stood  stone-stricken  in  sudden  amaze- 
ment. For  Flower-o'-the-Corn  had  come  into  his  life, 
and  he  could  never  be  the  same  man  any  more.  He  had 
a  slight  chillish  feeling  along  his  spine  as  if  he  had  been 
cut  in  two  by  some  fairy  sword  of  sharpness. 

For,  indeed,  she  was  like  a  flower — this  girl.  She  had 
the  dewy  freshness,  the  lissome  side  sway,  the  dash  of 
vivid  color  (which  was  her  mouth)  of  some  tall  poppy  or 
pomegranate  flower  seen  under  a  bright  sky.  Yet  there 
was  nothing  coquettish  about  Flower-o'-the-Corn — serene 
sweetness  and  simplicity  rather,  eminently  virginal.  She 
had  eyes  that  varied  from  dark  hazel  to  sapphire  blue,  and 
from  azure  back  again  to  a  mysterious  sea-violet,  accord- 
ing to  the  sky  that  shone  above  them  and  the  mood  that 
moved  behind  them.  But  her  mouth  was  her  greatest 
beauty.  Not  at  all  a  reposeful  mouth,  rather  one  con- 
stantly flitting  from  expression  to  expression,  pleading, 
petulant,  disdainful,  forgiving,  all  in  the  compass  of 
twenty  seconds — a  mouth,  too,  that  disclosed  witching 
glimpses  of  pearly  teeth,  white  as  milk,  closely  arrayed 
like  some  masterpiece  of  the  jeweller's  art. 

And  when  she  smiled  (which  upon  the  present  occasion 
she  did  at  his  discomfiture),  it  seemed  to  the  young  man 
like  the  sun  breaking  through  an  April  cloud.  She  wore 
a  rough  country  hat  of  naturally  colored  straw  on  her 
head,  set  a  trifle  saucily,  and  her  hair  beneath  it  was  of  the 


FRANCES  7 

color  of  the  ruddy  parts  of  Indian  corn,  with  quick  wilful 
lights  of  red  gold  and  darker  shadows  of  nut-brown 
running  through  it.  Flower-o'-the-Corn  was  not  tall, 
but  she  gave  the  impression  of  tallness.  Slender,  grace- 
ful, dainty,  a  willow  by  the  watercourses,  a  lissome- 
stemme  1  lily  that  had  somehow  blushed  rose-red.  Such 
was  Flower-o'-the-Corn  among  the  daughters. 

But  it  is  all  in  vain.  No  pen  could  write  down,  no 
tongue  express  the  peculiar  and  invincible  charm  of  Mis- 
tress Frances  Wellwood,  sole  daughter  of  Mr.  Patrick 
Wellwood,  chaplain  to  Ardmillan's  regiment,  in  the  ser- 
vice of  the  Queen  of  Great  Britain,  France,  and  Ireland. 
It  is  hardly  fair  to  say  that  the  young  man  was  struck. 
Rather  he  was  buffeted.  Nor  did  this  do  him  any  harm, 
for  he  was  a  youth  of  some  experience,  this  same  Maurice 
Raith,  as  befitted  an  ofBcer  and  a  gentleman  on  the  per- 
sonal staff  of  my  Lord  Marlborough.  No  stranger  was 
Captain  Raith  to  the  whimsies  of  court  dames  and  ladies 
of  honor,  fully  alive  to  the  fact  that  there  were  wives  of 
rich  ornaments  of  great  City  companies,  who  were  willing 
to  bestow  embroidered  suits  and  jewelled  sword-hilts,  all 
for  the  favor  of  a  little  escort  duty  on  fine  Sundays  after 
Mr.  Richard  Davies  or  Dr.  Henry  Sacheverell  had 
preached  in  St.  Paul's  or  Crutched  Friars.  Moreover, 
my  lord  did  not  encourage  simpletons  about  him,  never 
having  felt  himself  any  the  worse  of  my  Lady  Cleveland's 
early  bounty,  the  proceeds  of  which  he  had  locked  away 
so  securely  in  Lord  Halifax's  annuity. 

Yet,  when  all  was  said  and  done,  a  forth-looking, 
honest,  passably  virtuous  youth  was  Master  Maurice 
Raith,  brevet  Captain  and  acting  private  secretary  on  the 
stafif  of  my  Lord  Duke  before  the  defences  of  Namur, 
about  which  the  river  Meuse  fetches  a  peaceful  compass, 
as  becometh  a  river  of  the  Lowlands  Low. 

"  What  is  your  name?  " 

"  Frances.     And  yours?  " 

"  Maurice." 

There  was  the  inevitable  pause  as  they  looked  at  each 


8  FLOWER-O'-THE-CORN 

other,  blushing  with  beautiful  unanimity.  Surnames 
were  not  asked  for,  somehow.  Flower-o'-the-Corn  fin- 
gered a  safifron  and  purple  Marguerite,  pulling  the  petals 
slowly  from  their  centre  pincushion.  The  two  had  turned 
instinctively,  and  were  walking  down  the  slope  away  from 
the  camp.  Frances  could  not  tell  why — indeed,  she  did 
not  know  of  it  till  afterward.  Maurice  Raith  switched 
the  broom  with  his  cane,  and  searched  his  empty  brain 
for  something  to  say.  His  usual  easy  volubility  had 
strangely  deserted  him.  He  knew  that  a  compliment 
would  seem  incredibly  empty  even  before  it  was  uttered. 
He  felt  that  this  girl  was  somehow  difTerent  from  all 
others,  and  that  his  experience  of  court  ladies  and  city 
dames  would  not  help  him  in  the  least  here.  He  had  an 
odd  sense  of  being  (by  an  inversion  of  the  proverb)  a 
swine  introduced  to  a  trough  of  pearls — an  embarrassing 
business  for  the  swine. 

Yet  at  last  he  found  words. 

"  Is  it  safe,"  he  said,  softly,  "  that  you  should  wander 
thus  far  from  the  camp,  and  alone?  " 

He  seemed  suddenly  to  assume  the  right  to  inquire. 
A  certain  brotherly  instinct  stirred  within  him,  mixed  with 
something  else — the  intuitively  superior  attitude  of  the 
untrammelled  male  whenever  it  becomes  protective. 

"  The  camp  is  dangerous,"  he  went  on,  with  some 
eagerness,  "  the  new  levies,  the  Badeners,  the  wild  tribes- 
men from  the  edge  of  Styria " 

She  cut  him  short. 

"  Do  you  know  Ardmillan's  regiment? "  she  asked, 
sweetly  enough. 

"  Know  it?  "  he  smiled  back  at  her,  "  am  I  a  Scot,  and 
not  know  Ardmillan's  regiment?  " 

"  Then  you  will  understand  this  also,"  she  said,  "  that 
it  is  '  God  pity  him  who  meddles  with  Frances  Wellwood 
to  her  hurt  ! '  " 

"  That  may  be  true,"  he  persisted,  "  but  the  evil  might 
be  done — done  quickly,  and  vengeance  afterward  were 
but  a  poor  thing.  You  must  take  care — I  pray  you  bide 
nearer  home.    In  these  stormy  times " 


FRANCES  9 

"  Then  we  had  better  turn  now,"  she  interrupted,  "  for 
we  are  walking  straight  away  from  the  camp." 

"  But  you  are  under  my  escort — I  am  the  General's 
aide — a  fellow-countryman — in  fact,  Maurice  Raith!  " 

The  young  man  was  at  that  age  when  his  own  name 
seemed  a  passport  to  him.  In  spite  of  his  experience  he 
still  took  himself  very  seriously. 

"  My  friend,"  she  said,  "  neither  does  my  father  permit 
me  to  wander  without  the  weapons  of  the  flesh.  And 
some  skill  to  use  them." 

She  slid  her  hand  behind  her,  and  lo!  as  in  a  conjuring 
trick  there  were  a  brace  of  pistols  in  her  pretty  little 
hands.  In  a  moment  she  had  returned  them.  She  bent 
slightly,  lifted  her  foot,  seemed  to  touch  her  ankle,  and  a 
"  skean  dhu  "  gHttered  between  her  fingers. 

"  Will  that  do?  "  she  smiled  up  at  him,  still  stooping  a 
little,  "  or  must  I  produce  a  battery  of  artillery?  Say  the 
word,  sir.  I  am  a  battalion  of  infantry,  a  squadron  of 
cavalry,  and  a  park  of  artillery  all  in  one " 

"  You  are  a  very  foolish  girl!  "  said  Maurice,  senten- 
tiously,  and  with  the  loftiest  kind  of  disdain,  for  he  felt 
that  he  was  being  played  with,  and  did  not  like  it. 

"  Then,"  she  turned  away  at  right  angles,  "  you  are 
much  too  grand  a  person  to  waste  your  time  in  talking  to 
silly  girls.  I  wish  you  a  good-afternoon!  I  will  show 
you  it  was  true  about  the  cavalry,  at  any  rate." 

She  hailed  a  passing  orderly,  who  was  taking  an  ofificer's 
horse  to  a  convenient  swimming-place  on  the  Meuse  side. 

"  Whose  beast  is  that?  "  she  demanded,  curtly. 

"  Major  North's,  mistress,"  said  the  man. 

"Bring  him  here;  I  will  ride  him  back  into  camp. 
This  gentleman  says  that  it  is  unsafe  to  walk  outside 
alone!  " 

The  soldier  did  as  he  was  bidden,  without  a  word.  It 
was  evident  that  he  knew  the  girl  perfectly.  She  mounted 
easily,  just  touching  the  orderly's  outstretched  fingers. 
Maurice  Raith  stood  gaping. 

"Good-bye,"  she  cried,  arranging  her  skirts;  "run 
away  and  see  that  the  General's  letters  are  prettily  copied 


I  o  FLOWER-O'-THE-CORN 

or  you  will  be  whipped.  And  never  waste  your  time  on 
silly  girls.     It  is  a  habit  that  may  grow  on  you  !  " 

She  waved  her  hand  and  was  gone. 

Maurice  Raith  stamped  his  foot.  He  was  morally  cer- 
tain that  the  soldier-servant  laughed  on  the  lee  side  of 
that  horse.  He  could  hear  the  frank  silvery  trill  of 
Frances  Wellwood's  mirth.  He  resolved  that  he  would 
not  think  of  her  as  "  Flower-o'-the-Corn  "  any  more. 
And,  as  is  well  known,  resolution  is  a  fine  thing  in  such 
circumstances. 


II 

THE   CHAPLAIN    OF   ARDMILLAN'S    REGIMENT 

NOTHING  could  have  been  more  brilliant  than  the 
camp  of  the  allies  before  Namur,  when  the  mot- 
ley hosts  which  conquered  Tallard  at  Blenheim 
were  gathering  for  the  fray.  Yet  so  accustomed  was 
Frances  to  the  sight  that  she  only  glanced  up  occasionally 
when  the  buff-and-blue  of  her  own  regiment  of  Scottish 
foot  crossed  the  road  or  stood  grouped  in  argument  at  an 
inn  door.  Away  yonder  rode  General  Lumley  in  com- 
mand of  the  Scots  Greys,  with  a  brilliant  stafif  about  him, 
but  Frances  merely  nodded  pleasantly  to  one  or  two  of 
the  officers  of  the  staider  sort  who  came  over  of  an  even- 
ing to  talk  strategy  and  the  Divine  Decrees  with  her 
father.  Then  came  the  press  again — Wurtemburger 
light  horsemen  gold-banded  and  fretful  like  wasps,  blue 
Franconian  hussars,  their  boots  glittering  with  broad 
silver  bands  at  the  knee  and  ankle.  Anon  appeared  a 
cluster  of  fierce  mustache-twirling  Croats,  almond-eyed 
and  milk-toothed,  spitting  strange  oaths  over  their  shoul- 
ders at  huge  brawny  Pomeranian  privates,  stolidly  push- 
ing through  the  ruck,  four  abreast,  placid  and  impervious 
to  mere  noise  as  their  own  bullocks.  Never  such  a  host 
gathered  together,  and  never  so  strange  a  place  for  mortal 
maid  to  make  her  home  in. 

Yet  through  the  Babel  of  tongues,  the  broad  give-and- 
take  of  compliments  in  a  score  of  languages,  Flower-o'- 
the-Corn  moved  easily  and  placidly,  smiling  sweetly  down 
from  the  tall  horse  of  Major  North.  She  sat  him  bare- 
backed, but  as  if  on  an  easy-chair,  one  little  white  hand 
laid  lightly  on  the  mane,  and  her  eyes  roving  hither  and 


1 2  FLOWER-O'-THE-CORN 

thither  over  the  ranged  tents  and  further  afield  to  the 
long  white  lines  of  the  city  fortifications,  from  which  came 
ever  and  anon  the  dull  reverberation  of  a  heavy  gun  or  an 
upward  burst  of  white  smoke  as  a  mortar  was  dis- 
charged. 

Many  men  looked  at  her — they  had  not  been  men  else, 
but  the  hasty  gibe  in  rough  camp  English,  learnt  in  the 
trenches  and  bandied  in  whispers  from  post  to  post,  was 
hushed  by  the  quick  elbow  of  a  comrade. 

"The  Scots  priest's  daughter,  beware!  Her  father 
has  the  evil  eye — she,  the  gift  of  tongues.  Once  only 
Black  Kessel  of  Taxis  spake  roughly  to  her,  and  his 
tongue  clave  to  the  roof  of  his  mouth.  On  the  third  day 
he  died — as  it  were  in  the  flames  of  hell-fire!  "  This  was 
no  ill  repute  to  have  in  such  an  unruly  army,  but  when 
she  neared  her  own  quarters  Flower-o'-the-Corn  had  a 
still  better  safeguard. 

From  out  of  the  opening  of  a  narrow  street  came  a 
detail  of  Ardmillan's  regiment  walking  with  the  perfectly- 
drilled  Scottish  swing.  They  were  on  fatigue  duty,  and 
each  carried  a  mop  and  bucket,  but  for  alignment  and 
simultaneousness  of  movement  it  might  have  been  a 
Field-Marshal's  parade.  And  as  they  passed  Frances 
Wellwood  their  chins  went  up  and  their  hands  with  one 
simultaneous  unanimous  gesture  followed  the  beautiful 
movements  of  the  military  salute.  Flower-o'-the-Corn 
did  not  smile.  She  responded  to  the  honor  as  an  officer 
would  have  done.  It  was  her  unquestioned  right.  She 
had  been  accustomed  to  it  ever  since  she  could  trot  about 
barracks  and  cling  to  the  musket-butts  of  the  soldiers 
on  guard. 

In  all  that  regiment  of  grim  Presbytery  men,  the  lees 
of  the  old  Covenanting  companies  who  had  fought  under 
Cleland  at  Dunkeld,  and  campaigned  with  Shields  in  Bar- 
badoes,  there  was  not  one  who  would  not  have  died  for 
her.  And  Frances  Wellwood  knew  it,  just  as  well  as 
that  she  breathed,  and  it  seemed  as  natural  a  thing  to  her. 
She  counted  the  adoration  of  men  as  her  daily  bread, 


CHAPLAIN  OF  THE  REGIMENT   13 

or  the  breathing  of  the  clean  caller  air — in  the  which  lay 
her  safety.  What,  she  said  to  herself,  was  one — aye,  even 
Master  Maurice  Raith,  secretary  to  the  General,  among 
so  many" 


Suddenly  she  called  upon  the  soldier-servant  to  halt. 

"Thank  Major  North  for  the  use  of  his  beast!"  she 
said;  "  tell  him  Frances  Wellwood  said  so!  " 

She  smiled  as  she  had  spoken,  like  a  princess.  The 
soldier,  a  man  of  Ingolsby's  Fusiliers,  drew  himself  erect 
as  if  he  had  been  praised  by  his  ofificer  on  parade,  saluted, 
and  was  gone. 

It  was  in  front  of  a  little  whitewashed,  red-tiled  Flemish 
house  that  Frances  had  slid  easily  and  lightly  from  her 
horse.  Under  the  porch,  vine-covered  in  broad  unequal 
patches,  stood  an  old  man,  tall  and  spare,  his  black  cocked 
hat  in  his  hand.  He  was  in  talk  with  a  younger  man, 
though  one  already  grizzled  and  browned  with  service. 
As  the  elder  man  gesticulated  with  the  cocked  hat,  he 
bent  his  head  this  way  and  that  in  the  vehemence  of  argu- 
ment, till  presently  half-turning  as  the  shadow  of  the  girl 
fell  on  the  white  path,  he  showed  that  one  of  his  beautiful 
brown  eyes  squinted  most  alarmingly,  or  rather  (as  it  ap- 
peared) the  right  eye  behaved  normally,  while  the  left 
turned  every  way  in  its  socket  as  if  wholly  independent 
of  the  will  of  its  owner.  But  Frances  was  far  from  paying 
any  attention  to  this.  She  ran  impulsively  to  the  elder 
man,  and  without  noticing  his  companion  she  cast  her 
arms  about  his  neck  and  kissed  him,  in  Continental  fash- 
ion, on  both  cheeks. 

"Frances!  Frances!"  said  the  minister,  disengaging 
her  gently,  "  will  you  never  learn  manners?  Do  you  not 
see  that  I  am  presently  in  colloquy  with  my  colonel.  Sir 
Archibald  Ardmillan  ?  It  is  an  affair  of  the  regiment.  I 
pray  you  go  in  and  leave  us,  Frances!  " 

"  Indeed,"  said  his  daughter,  "  I  will  do  nothing  of  the 
sort.  If  it  is  an  affair  of  the  regiment,  you  have  your 
study.  Colonel  Ardmillan  has  his  orderly-room  and  his 
quarters.     This  is  at  present  my  front  garden,  and  if  you 


14  FLOWER-O'-THE-CORN 

have  anything  to  say  that  I  may  not  hear,  there  is  a  gate 
leading  out  of  it.     But  if  Sir  Archibald " 

The  grizzled,  shortish  man  laughed — a  bachelor's  easy, 
tolerant  laugh. 

"  Your  daughter  is  right,  chaplain,"  he  said.  "  My 
Lord  Duke  said  nothing  of  concealing  the  matter  from 
her.  She  may  as  well  know  soon  as  syne,  as  the  Ayrshire 
folk  say!  " 

The  old  man  frowned,  with,  perhaps,  more  zeal  than 
sincerity  upon  his  brow. 

"  She  hath  no  respect  of  persons,  this  maiden,"  he  said; 
"  it  is  the  fault  of  her  upbringing  in  camps  and  assemblies 
of  violent  men.  Alas!  that  my  lines  have  fallen  to  me  by 
the  Waters  of  Strife — yea,  by  the  streams  of  Babel,  which 
being  interpreted,  signifieth  confusion!  " 

As  he  stood  in  speech  with  her  father,  Colonel  Sir 
Archibald  Ardmillan  had  kept  his  hat  on  his  head.  For 
he  was  one  of  the  few  who,  having  no  reason  to  fear  either 
God  or  the  devil,  took  small  heed  of  the  belief  prevailing 
in  the  allied  armies  that  the  chaplain  of  his  regiment  had 
intimacies  with  dwellers  in  strange  places,  and  could  sum- 
mon the  demons  from  their  abodes,  calling  each  familiarly 
by  his  several  names,  as  Donat,  Severio,  Bandaro,  and  the 
like. 

"  These  are  the  instructions  of  my  Lord  Duke,"  re- 
peated Ardmillan,  brusquely,  "  and  I  rely  upon  you  to 
carry  them  out !  " 

He  turned  on  his  heel  with  a  brief  salutation  of  respect 
to  Frances,  and  nodding  to  her  father,  took  his  way  back 
to  the  headquarters  of  his  regiment.  A  hard-bitten 
soldier  of  King  William  was  Sir  Archibald  Ardmillan, 
and  one  who  had  been  wounded  in  the  groin  at  Steenkirk 
at  the  same  time  as  my  Lord  Cutts  gat  his  lame  foot,  and 
the  whole  light  division  found  itself  cut  to  windlestraws. 

"  You  have  ofifended  our  colonel,  girl,"  said  Patrick 
Wellwood.  "  That  is  not  well  done.  Remember  that 
upon  his  goodwill  depends  your  very  permission  to  follow 
the  camp!  " 


CHAPLAIN  OF  THE  REGIMENT   15 

"  The  camp  would  miss  me  worse  than  I  the  camp," 
returned  the  girl,  patting  her  father's  white  locks  indul- 
gently.    "  You  and  I  can  do  very  well  without  the  camp." 

"  Without  the  camp ! — Without  the  camp,  bearing  His 
reproach!  "  groaned  the  old  minister,  falling  straightway 
into  a  kind  of  revery,  and  forgetting  as  was  his  custom 
the  immediate  subject  of  conversation. 

His  eyes  were  fixed,  even  the  wandering  left  one  grow- 
ing set  and  filmy. 

"  A  great  quest,"  he  said,  raising  his  hand  with  a  kind 
of  rapture,  and  his  voice  taking  on  its  pulpit  inflection  ; 
"  a  great  quest — to  deliver  the  people  of  the  Lord  out  of 
the  hand  of  the  oppressor,  from  under  the  hooves  of  the 
horses  shod  for  war,  and  from  before  the  charioteers  that 
drive  furiously!  " 

Then  he  looked  at  his  daughter  with  a  kind  of  soft 
sadness,  remarkable  in  so  stern  a  man. 

"  But  this  my  dove,"  he  went  on,  "  my  ain  dove  that 
sitteth  among  the  rocks,  that  hath  had  her  dwelling  all 
her  days  among  the  defenced  rocks!  What  shall  I  do 
with  her  in  the  day  of  peril — in  the  time  of  battle  and 
war?" 

The  girl  rose  and  put  both  her  arms  about  the  old  man's 
neck. 

"  Patrick  Wellwood,"  she  said,  using,  in  the  old  Scots 
fashion,  the  full  name  of  her  parent,  "  is  it  not  written, 
'  Entreat  me  not  to  leave  thee  or  to  return  from  following 
after  thee?  For  whither  thou  goest  I  will  go,  and  where 
thou  lodgest  I  will  lodge! '  " 

"  True,  Frances,"  said  the  old  man,  "  so  it  is  written, 
and  of  the  love  of  the  young  to  the  old.  Moreover, 
whither  could  I  send  you  to  keep  you  more  safe  than  here 
under  my  hand?  Yet  for  this  love  of  thine  to  me-ward, 
the  Lord  that  is  on  high  recompense  you,  my  daughter!  " 

"Then  I  am  to  accompany  you?"  Frances  put  the 
question  with  a  quick  upward  lift  of  the  eyelashes. 

"  I  judge  that  no  better  may  be,"  said  the  minister, 
"  yet  if  it  were  possible  I  would  even  prefer  that  you 


1 6  FLOWER-O'-THE-CORN 

should  abide  in  one  of  their  Popish  convents  rather  than 
risk  Hfe  and  honor  among  the  helhsh  accusers  of  the 
Brethren." 

"  If  you  did  put  me  in  a  convent,"  said  Frances,  laugh- 
ing, "  I  would  climb  over  the  wall  and  be  after  you  in  two 
hours.  Aye,  even  as  I  did  when  you  left  me  at  my  aunt's 
at  Sawtflats,  So,  daddy,  I  warn  you  !  But  whither  are 
we  to  go?  " 

The  old  man  lifted  his  finger.  "  Hush,  girl,"  he  said, 
"  the  birds  of  the  air  may  carry  the  matter.  Come,  then, 
closer  to  me!  " 

And  tossing  her  bonnet  over  her  shoulder  and  throwing 
back  her  fleece  of  shining  curls  with  a  pretty  gesture,  the 
daughter  of  Ardmillan's  chaplain  skipped  across  and 
climbed  on  her  father's  knee,  even  as  she  had  done  when 
she  was  a  little  girl  of  four,  and  Patrick  Wellwood  kept 
lumps  of  brown  sugar  in  his  waistcoat  pocket  for  the 
only  comrade  whom  death  and  the  malignity  of  enemies 
had  left  to  him. 

She  set  her  bonnet  momentarily  on  his  long  white  hair, 
anon  snatching  it  ofif  again  as  if  there  was  something  of 
profanation  in  the  act.  Then  she  curled  her  toes  behind 
his  leg,  and  said  encouragingly  as  she  perched  herself, 
"  Now,  daddy,  whisper!  " 

It  was  the  old  formula  with  which  he  had  set  himself 
to  put  her  to  sleep  in  mountain  caves,  in  the  old  days  of 
the  Scottish  persecutions,  and  Patrick  Wellwood  smiled 
as  he  heard  it. 

"  My  child,"  he  said,  very  gently,  "  once  again  you  and 
I  are  to  take  our  lives  in  our  hands,  and  adventure  into 
the  deserts  and  wild  hills,  that  we  may  bring  succor  to 
God's  folk  sufifering  there — even  as  in  the  days  not  long 
agone,  we  of  the  Scottish  reformation  abode  in  dens  and 
caves  of  the  earth!  We  go  to  the  mountains  called 
Cevennes! " 

"The  Cevennes?"  queried  the  girl,  "that  is  in  the 
South  of  France,  is  it  not?  In  Languedoc,  and  on  the 
borders  of  Spain !  " 


CHAPLAIN  OF  THE  REGIMENT  17 

"  You  have  not  quite  forgot  your  book  lear  at  Geneva," 
he  said.  "  I  also  must  recall  many  things  that  I  had 
thought  forever  put  behind  me.  For  I  am  to  journey 
ostensibly  as  a  minister  of  the  Swiss  reform  kirk,  on  a 
mission  to  persuade  the  Protestant  gentlemen  of  Pro- 
vence and  the  Vivarais  to  assist  the  King  in  putting  down 
the  fanatics  of  the  utmost  hills  !  " 

The  girl  nestled  closer  to  her  father.  "  You  will  not 
go  anywhere  without  me;  you  have  promised!  "  she  said, 
coaxing  him  like  a  babe  that  knows  its  power. 

The  old  man  sighed. 

"  It  is  my  fate,"  he  said;  "  Patrick  Wellwood  will  never 
lang  lie  snug  on  the  lee  side  of  any  dyke.  His  weird  can 
nae  man  shun,  and  to  hear  the  whaups  on  the  muir,  and 
the  black  cock  craw  amang  the  heather  a'  his  days  is  his 
fate  and  yours,  my  lassie !  " 

"  Better  than  to  hear  the  mouse  cheep,  as  said  the 
Black  Douglas,  father,"  returned  Frances,  swaying  her- 
self back  on  his  knee  till  she  could  kiss  his  cheek  where 
the  fine  color  stood  winter-ruddy  and  crisp  as  on  an 
October  pippin. 

"Ah,  lass,  lass!"  said  the  old  man,  gently,  "ye  are 
young  and  see  no  new  thing  come  wrang  to  ye,  so  be 
that  it  is  new.  But  the  day  shall  come  when  ye  will 
think  your  ain  cosy  ingle-nook  and  a  drap  halesome  par- 
ritch  in  a  bicker  the  next  best  thing  to  Abram's  bosom!  " 


Ill 

MY   LORD   DUKE 

THERE  is  no  doubt  that  of  the  two  young  people 
who  met  that  pleasant   clean-breathed   day  of 
July  on  the  Brabant  cornlands,  Maurice  Raith 
was  the  one  who  thought  most  concerning  the  encounter. 

This,  of  course,  was  not  at  all  according  to  the  rules  of 
the  game.  The  dashing  young  aide  and  favorite  secre- 
tary, to  whom  his  chief  looked  to  draw  secrets  from  the 
breasts  of  great  ladies  (who  sometimes  held  such  in  their 
keeping),  what  would  he  care  for  the  daughter  of  the 
Presbyterian  chaplain  of  a  Scots  regiment  but  lately  trans- 
ferred from  the  Dutch  roster? 

What  more  natural  than  that  a  simple  girl  like  Frances 
Wellwood  should  be  flattered  by  the  attentions  and  ad- 
miration of  a  handsome  young  ofificer  of  the  General's 
own  staff? 

Yet  the  truth  must  be  told.  It  was  Maurice  Raith 
and  not  Frances  Wellwood  who  went  away  with  that  old 
ache  at  the  heart.  Fifty  times  and  other  fifty  he  informed 
himself  that  he  did  not  care  a  straw,  and  as  often  the 
assertion  did  him  no  good.  He  saw  Flower-o'-the-Corn 
stand  up  against  the  summer  sunlight,  breast-high  in 
the  golden  grain,  a  poppy  (scarce  redder  than  her  lips) 
laid  against  her  white  dress,  and  eyes  bluer  than  the  blue 
skies  looking  down  mirthfully  at  him. 

But  now  striding  back  to  head-quarters,  he  ground  his 
heel  into  the  earth  to  think  that  she  had  laughed  at  him — 
yes,  at  him,  Maurice  Raith,  stafT-captain  and  favorite 
secretary  of  the  Commander-in-Chief.  Had  she  not  bid- 
den him  go  home  and  set  to  the  careful  copying  of  his 
letters  on  pain  of  being  whipped! 

i8 


MY    LORD    DUKE  19 

Repeating  this  to  himself  with  quite  unnecessary  vehe- 
mence, he  suddenly  laughed  aloud,  and  so  felt  eased. 
For  when  a  man  has  once  treated  a  matter  as  a  joke,  be 
it  for  ever  so  brief  a  period,  he  can  never  take  it  back 
again  into  the  region  of  the  highest  tragedy,  where  alone 
danger  lies. 

So  Maurice  Raith,  laughing,  put  away  his  ill-humor, 
and  made  the  saner  masculine  resolve,  "  The  little  vixen  ! 
I  will  be  even  with  her  yet!  " 

This  was,  however,  somewhat  easier  to  propose  than 
to  perform,  considering  that  the  young  lady  had  by  this 
time  wellnigh  forgotten  his  very  existence,  and  at  any 
rate,  counted  no  more  upon  his  noble  mustache-twirling 
secretaryship  than  upon  the  well-set-up  orderly  who  had 
given  her  a  cast  homeward  upon  Major  North's  charger. 

There  is  no  safeguard  against  the  fascinations  of  men 
like  being  able  to  do  without  them.  A  girl  who  can 
fend  for  herself,  and  by  herself,  can  afford  to  pick  and 
choose,  or,  finding  none  worth  the  choosing,  can  drop  her 
port-anchor  in  her  own  proper  haven  at  the  end  of  the 
cruise,  none  making  her  afraid.  It  may  not  be  the  best 
finis  conceivable,  but  how  much  better  than  many  other 
domestic  conclusions  which  the  world  does  not  count  sad! 

Maurice  Raith  had  not  reached  head-quarters  before  he 
saw  that  something  of  lirst-rate  importance  had  happened 
there  in  his  absence.  The  chief,  his  sword  pitched  on 
the  nearest  chair,  his  plumed  hat  lying  broadside  on  the 
ascetic  camp-bed,  was  striding  to  and  fro,  dictating  furi- 
ously. Mounted  officers  were  dashing  out  with  orders 
to  north,  east,  and  west. 

"Raith!  Raith!'''  Maurice  heard  his  name  shouted 
with  increasing  volume  of  sound.  "  Raith  to  see  his 
Grace! "  A  young  subaltern  repeated  the  words,  adding 
in  a  lower  tone,  "  and  a  devil  of  a  temper  you  will  find 
him  in,  my  friend,  when  he  does  get  hold  of  you!  He 
has  been  demanding  you  with  oaths  and  cursings  for  the 
last  half-hour!  " 

Another  muttered  under  his  breath  as  Maurice  passed, 


20  FLOWER-O'-THE-CORN 

"  God's  blessing  on  such  as  you,  my  son  !  If  it  were  not 
for  you  and  your  like,  we  might  all  have  had  to  be  gold- 
mounted,  brass-buttoned  stafif  officers,  sitting  on  stools 
all  day  long  and  writing  condemnable  despatches." 

Thus  encouraged  Maurice  faced  his  chief,  and  lo!  the 
great  man's  mood  was  changed.  In  the  morning  when 
he  preached  to  the  lad  his  languid  philosophy  of  laisscr 
fairc,  John  Churchill  had  seemed  a  kind  of  extinct  vol- 
cano, smoking  the  pipe  of  peace  and  prating  of  bygone 
extravagances.  Now  he  was  an  earthquake,  an  eruption, 
and  a  hurricane  all  in  one.  He  stood  in  the  middle  of 
the  room  volleying  orders,  despatching  brusque  com- 
mands to  the  farthest  limits  of  the  camp,  arranging  ren- 
dezvous with  his  allies,  Eugene  of  Savoy  and  the  sulky 
Badener  prince. 

*'  That  is  too  curt,  Powell,"  he  'cried,  as  he  glanced  at  a 
despatch  handed  him  by  a  staff  secretary  with  silent 
deference;  "why  in  the  incomprehensible  name  of 
Lucifer,  son  of  the  morning,  do  you  not  learn  to  express 
yourself  with  more  suavity?  These  gentlemen  to  whom 
you  write  are  at  least  men  and  brothers.  They  have  no 
visible  tails.  They  stand  erect  upon  their  hind  legs. 
Their  honorable  names  you  may  read  on  the  lists  of  the 
Empire — the  Prince  Elector  of  Baden  and  the  Hereditary 
Grand  Duke  of  Wurtemberg.  Pray  address  them  as  at 
least  your  equals,  Mr.  Sub-Lieutenant  Richard  Cobb  !  " 

This  was  the  way  of  "  Corporal  John  "  when  he  had 
matters  of  weight  upon  his  mind. 

"Ah,  Raith! — Captain  Maurice  Raith — and  pray  in- 
form me  whose  kissing  curls  have  kept  your  Presbyterian 
brawn  and  conscience  so  long  from  your  work,  sirrah? 
This  morning  I  gave  you  certain  counsels,  indeed,  but 
it  was  not  my  intent  that  you  should  have  proved  so 
quick  at  profiting  by  them.  However,  I  have  here  under 
my  hand  a  mission  for  you,  Master  Maurice,  that  had 
better  be  wholly  private  betwixt  thee  and  me!  " 

And  Maurice  Raith,  bowing  humbly  before  the  great 
captain,  entered  into  the  same  apartment  in  which  he 


MY    LORD    DUKE  21 

had  received  his  Grace's  morning  lecture  concerning  the 
deportment  and  behavior  of  young  men  upon  their  pro- 
motion in  Her  Majesty's  services. 

But  all  things  now  were  different,  and  Maurice  Raith 
was  no  longer  as  he  had  been,  indifferent  to  what  he 
heard.  For  this  was  no  matter  of  ladies'  favors,  when 
every  word  breathed  of  war,  bloody  war  from  South  to 
North! 

Marlborough  did  not  now  dally  with  his  subject,  but 
put  his  wishes  with  characteristic  vigor  and  clearness. 

"  The  army  marches  at  once  to  the  South — to  the 
Danube  perhaps,  certainly  to  the  Rhine!  " 

The  young  man  started. 

"  My  lord,  you  promised  me  a  regiment,"  he  said. 

The  Commander-in-Chief  laid  his  hand  on  his  shoulder 
with  more  tenderness  than  could  have  been  expected  from 
so  cold  and  stern  a  man. 

"  I  promised  your  father,  Raith,  that  you  should  earn  it 
first.  Were  you  my  own  son  you  should  do  no  less.  I 
should  do  no  more !  " 

"  I  know  it,  my  lord,"  said  Maurice  Raith ;  "  only 
show  me  how  I  am  to  earn  it.  My  desire  is  to  use  my 
sword  in  your  service  as  well  as  my  pen." 

"  Ah,"  said  the  Duke,  with  not  a  trace  of  his  recent 
haste,  "  you  make  the  mistake  of  all  brisk  young  men. 
There  are  more  ways  of  earning  military  renown  than 
the  way  of  a  bull  at  a  fence.  You  have  a  head,  Captain 
Raith,  but  you  need  not  knock  it  against  a  stone  wall. 
There  are  a  thousand  youngsters  in  my  army  who  will 
lead  a  forlorn  hope,  run  headlong  upon  a  breach,  storm 
a  fort,  endure  danger  and  hunger,  or  lie  out  three  days 
in  the  open  fields  with  their  wounds  untended,  yet  think 
that  they  have  done  nothing  out  of  the  common.  But 
there  are  not  so  many — indeed,  I  know  of  but  one  whom 
I  would  intrust  with  the  commission  which  I  will  put 
into  your  hands  this  day.     His  name  is  Maurice  Raith!  " 

The  young  man's  heart  beat  fast  at  the  words  of  con- 
fidence from  the  lips  of  the  great  master  of  war. 


22  FLOWER-O'-THE-CORN 

"  I  am  wholly  at  your  service,  my  lord,"  he  said. 

The  General  nodded  shortly. 

"  You  speak  French  like  a  native,  I  believe,"  he  went 
on.  "  For  that  purpose  I  advised  your  father  to  send 
you  three  years  to  Paris  when  we  were  planning  how 
to  make  the  most  of  you.  You  can  talk  like  a  diplomat, 
write  like  a  scribe,  pay  court  like  a  prince  of  the  Holy 
Roman  Empire — and  if  you  could  only  lie  with  convic- 
tion, and  control  your  hot  head,  you  would  be  a  tem- 
pered weapon  worth  using  in  the  great  game  of  principal- 
ities and  powers!  " 

His  Grace  of  Marlborough  paused  a  little,  narrowing 
his  eyes  and  looking  critically  at  the  young  man  between 
his  lowered  lashes. 

"  No,"  he  said,  as  if  the  remark  were  the  outcome  of 
his  scrutiny,  "we  cannot  afford  to  waste  you  on  the 
rough-and-tumble  of  battle.  The  like  of  these  are  good 
enough." 

With  a  contemptuous  shoulder  he  indicated  where  half- 
a-dozen  young  officers  stood  chattering  and  jesting  in 
front  of  his  quarters,  waiting  for  despatches  or  merely 
discussing  the  probabilities  of  the  campaign. 

"  To  your  regiments,  gentlemen,"  he  cried  suddenly, 
and  the  concourse  broke  up  in  scared  silence  as  the  flap 
of  the  tent  fell  back. 

Marlborough  returned  to  a  map  of  France  which  was 
spread  out  on  the  table  before  him.  Maurice's  eyes  fol- 
lowed the  direction  of  his  commander's  glance.  The 
great  man,  with  characteristic  quickness,  took  his 
thought. 

"  No,"  he  said,  "  that  pleasure  is  not  for  me  this  time, 
though  " — here  he  hesitated — "  my  friend  Prince  Eugene 
has  promised  his  most  Christian  Majesty  a  visit  one  of 
these  days.  But  you.  Captain  Raith,  are  to  make  a  little 
journey,  in  any  disguise  that  may  suit  you,  through  a 
portion  of  Louis  Bourbon's  dominions." 

He  laid  his  finger  far  to  the  south,  drawing  it  diago- 
nally across  the  south-east  'corner  of  France. 


MY    LORD    DUKE  23 

"  There,"  he  said,  grimly,  "  is  the  ulcer  within  his 
gates,  which  may  yet  cripple  the  householder — the 
Grande  Monarque!  You  have  heard  of  the  Cevennes?  " 
he  concluded,  looking  up  swiftly. 

Maurice  looked  surprised. 

"  I  have,  as  your  Grace  knows,  written  many  letters 
at  your  instance  to  the  chiefs  of  the  insurrection  among 
those  mountains." 

"Hush!"  said  the  Duke,  smiling,  "you  are  a  clever 
lad,  Maurice,  but  each  morning  the  mind  of  a  good  secre- 
tary ought  to  be  like  a  clean-wiped  slate.  What  I  write 
upon  it  one  day  has  no  relation  with  what  was  written 
there  the  day  before.  But  at  all  events,  you  are  to  jour- 
ney thither,  and  privately  and  unofificially  to  encourage 
the  leaders  of  the  revolt.  There  are  to  be  English  ships 
of  war  on  the  Mediterranean  coast,  at  a  place  which  I 
will  show  you  before  you  leave,  upon  a  date  which  I  will 
also  communicate.  You  will  see  that  the  stores  and  war- 
like material  reach  those  for  whom  it  is  intended — that 
is,  our  persecuted  fellow-Protestants  of  the  South  of 
France." 

It  is  possible  that  there  was  a  slightly  humorous  cast 
upon  the  Duke's  countenance  as  he  uttered  these  words, 
but  his  eye  met  that  of  his  subordinate  full  and  defiant. 
John  Churchill  could  be  a  good  enough  Protestant  when 
it  suited  him;  nevertheless,  the  words  fell  somewhat 
quaintly  from  his  lips. 

But  Maurice  bowed  gravely. 

"  And,  if  I  succeed,  will  that  earn  me  my  regiment?  " 
he  said,  quietly. 

A  darker  shade  passed  over  the  brow  of  the  great  com- 
mander. 

"  You  make  me  inclined  to  think,"  he  said,  "  that  I 
have  overrated  your  capacity.  You  will  come  to  me  for 
your  final  instructions  to-morrow  morning  at  five  o'clock. 
In  the  meantime  you  will  provide  yourself  with  whatever 
disguise  seems  to  you  most  fitting.  Remember,  you 
must  expect  no  assistance  from  us  if  you  are  caught.     In 


24  FLOWER-O'-THE-CORN 

that  case  you  will  assuredly  be  hung  for  a  spy.  Pray 
make  your  reckoning  with  that." 

Maurice  bowed  a  second  time  and  went  out. 

"  Surely  so  much  risk  is  worth  a  regiment,  at  least," 
he  said  softly  to  himself,  as  he  heard  the  General  summon 
one  of  his  fellow-secretaries  to  receive  another  letter  at 
dictation. 


IV 

PIERRE   THE   WAGONER 

THE  great  folk  being  done  with  for  a  while,  issue 
we  forth  upon  the  clean-washen  high  road  of 
middle  France,  none  to  vex  us  for  a  hundred 
leagues,  save  only  the  occasional  exactions  and  constant 
overbearing  manners  of  the  men-at-arms  at  the  city  gates, 
and  the  dust-swirls  that  swept  and  waltzed  between  the 
pollarded  willows  of  its  endless  perspectives. 

"Hey!  Ola!  Allez!"  cried  a  certain  nut-brown  carter 
to  his  leading  beast  as  it  tugged  up  the  long  ascent  of  the 
Causse  of  Larzac.  "  Take  your  head  out  from  between 
your  knees  and  pull  with  the  others,  you  spindle-shanked, 
raw-boned  lump  of  laziness!  " 

And  the  cracking  of  a  huge  Languedocian  whip, 
bought  over  against  the  church  of  Mazamet,  punctuated 
the  appeal. 

There  is  no  highway  in  the  world  to-day  like  that  of 
France.  There  may  be  more  imminent  horizons,  wilder 
outlookings  upon  moss-hag  and  granite  hills.  There  are 
certainly  some  with  more  flowery  meads  set  on  either 
side,  ankle-deep — thigh-deep,  if  you  choose,  in  buttercup 
and  meadow-sweet.  There  are  whiter  lines  of  cottages 
by  Scottish  highways,  and  redder  brick  cottages  more 
deeply  smothered  in  ivy  at  the  corners  of  English  lanes. 

But  for  all  that  is  pleasant  in  the  pleasantest  time  of 
the  year,  there  is  nothing  in  all  the  world  like  a  French 
road — not  too  far  to  the  north,  when  the  rye  is  ready  and 
the  wheat  stands  ripe  and  level.  And  so  thought  Pierre 
Dubois,  master-carrier  between  the  towns  of  Roche-a- 
Bayard  and  Hoo,  whose  calling  and  abode  were  expressed 

25 


26  FLOWER-O'-THE-CORN 

in  large  letters  upon  the  tilting  of  his  three  great  wagons. 
A  stout  young  man,  an  absolutely  respectable  man,  a  man 
of  his  fists  and  other  folk's  affairs  was  this  Master  Pierre. 
He  had  documents,  too,  enough  to  satisfy  an  army  of 
inquirers.  Had  he  not  the  King's  own  seal  for  the  right 
of  entry  into  and  exit  out  of  France?  By  profession  he 
was  licensed  carrier  of  wine  from  the  recently-added 
province  of  Alsace  to  the  King's  most  excellent  and  wine- 
bibbing  majesty. 

But  in  that  case  what  was  he  doing  cracking  his  whip 
upon  the  steep  rise  of  the  Causse  de  Larzac,  this  bluff 
northern  Monsieur  Pierre  of  Roche-a-Bayard  and  Hoo? 

Ah!  that  was  another  story,  and  he  had  yet  another 
certificate  for  that.  Were  there  not  servants  of  the  King 
in  these  semi-savage  solitudes — leading  strange  lives, 
hunters  of  men,  scourges  of  fanatics,  shooters  at  sight 
of  Camisard  and  Huguenot,  getting  small  thanks  for  all 
their  pains,  yet  daily  exposing  their  lives  on  desolate 
waterless  hills,  where  scarce  a  Caussenard  sheep  could 
gain  a  livelihood,  ever  in  danger  of  a  Protestant  bullet 
from  behind  some  juniper  bush  or  ridge  of  limestone 
rock?  What  more  natural  than  that,  the  bulk  of  the 
sparkling  wine  of  the  Meuse  and  Moselle  having  been 
delivered  at  Marly  for  the  throat  of  Royalty,  the  thought- 
ful King  Louis  should  bid  so  safe  a  messenger  to  continue 
his  way  southward,  with  sundry  casks  of  the  same  vintage 
to  cheer  the  hearts  of  his  faithful  servants,  battling  year 
in  and  year  out  with  hill-preachers  and  long-haired  en- 
thusiasts in  the  blue  misty  valleys  of  the  Cevennes. 

At  all  events  this  which  followeth  is  what  the  afore- 
said Pierre  of  Roche-a-Bayard  and  Hoo  carried  written 
upon  his  manifests  and  traffic  permits: 

"  Three  great  and  three  little  casks  of  zvine  of  the 
Moselle,  committed  to  the  care  of  Master -carrier  Pierre 
Dubois,  of  the  towns  of  Roche-a-Bayard  and  Hoo — the 
property  of  his  most  Christian  Majesty  Louis,  King  of 
France  and  Brittany;  to  be  carried  free  of  all  duty,  local 
or  imperial,  to  the  Kings  servants,  the  Marechal  de 


PIERRE   THE    WAGONER        27 

Montrevel  and  the  Brigadier-General  de  Planque — being 
a  present  from  his  most  Christian  Majesty.'' 

Surely  as  simple,  convincing,  irrefragable  a  document 
as  ever  was  written  upon  a  sheet  of  paper  with  the  royal 
arms  of  France  at  the  top!  Nevertheless,  there  were 
other  things  in  the  barrels  besides  Moselle  wine,  and  the 
handsome  jolly-faced  carter  had  in  early  life,  and,  indeed, 
till  within  the  last  two  weeks,  owned  to  the  name  of  Mau- 
rice Raith,  while  his  most  convincing  papers  had  been 
obtained — well,  as  such  things  can  always  be  obtained 
when  "  the  highest  quarters  "  interest  themselves  in — 
wine-carriers  and  their  passports. 

And  certainly  Monsieur  Pierre  the  Flamand  played  his 
part  with  vigor  and  resolution.  He  wore  no  false  hair  or 
beard.  The  stain  on  his  complexion  was  not  deeper  than 
that  which  bronzed  the  cheeks  of  many  a  sturdy  follower 
of  the  crawling  road  wagons  and  blue-sheeted  carriers' 
carts.  Pierre  of  Roche-a-Bayard  and  Hoo  had  been 
careful  not  to  overdo  his  part.  A  man  of  the  north,  he 
was  naturally  less  inclined  to  loud  outcries  and  clamorous 
greetings  than  the  other  occupants  of  the  roadside  inns 
where  he  put  up.  He  had  also  a  certain  quietly  smiling 
dignity  which  sat  well  upon  him. 

His  three  wagons  were  all  excellently  horsed — so  well, 
indeed,  that  more  than  one  cavalry  ofBcer,  gathering  re- 
mounts for  the  military  service,  had  threatened  to  press 
his  entire  stock  of  beasts  in  the  King's  name,  desisting 
only  when  informed  of  the  mission  on  which  he  was  pro- 
ceeding and  the  directly  royal  patronage  which  the  carrier 
of  Hoo  enjoyed. 

It  chanced  that  just  as  this  sturdy  Pierre  left  the  town 
of  Millau  behind  him,  passing  over  that  famous  and  an- 
cient bridge  of  which  the  two  shoreward  piers  on  either 
side  form  completely  equipped  mills,  he  came  suddenly 
upon  a  curiously  assorted  group. 

Half-a-dozen  King's  troopers  stood  hectoring  and 
storming  upon  the  broad  irregular  paving-stones  of 
the  Pont  Royal.     Three  of  them  were  holding  down  a 


28  FLOWER-O'-THE-CORN 

huge  half-naked  giant  of  a  man,  whose  abundant  shaggy 
hair  was  bound  about  with  a  bloody  rag.  His  hands  were 
tied  behind  his  back  with  a  rope,  the  which  yet  another 
man  was  endeavoring  to  tighten,  while  his  waistcoat, 
turned  and  defaced  as  it  was  and  stripped  of  all  marks 
and  military  badges,  weatherstained  and  tattered,  still 
bore  the  indestructible  cachet  of  the  British  regimental 
tailor. 

The  sergeant  in  charge  of  the  soldiers  was  laughing  at 
the  uncouth  actions  and  speech  of  a  woman  who  alter- 
nately raised  her  hands  to  heaven,  imprecating  curses 
upon  all  recruiting  parties  in  broad  Scots,  and  threw  her- 
self on  her  knees,  clasping  his  feet  and  declaring  in  quite 
intelligible  French  that  a  man  so  nobly  gifted  by  nature 
would  never  take  away  her  only  protector,  her  master  and 
lord — even  Billy  Marshall,  from  whose  hands  she  had 
taken  beatings  innumerable  and  whose  "  poke  "  she  had 
carried  along  the  roads  of  every  country  in  Europe. 

The  wine-carrier  cried  ahead  to  clear  the  way,  but  the 
soldiers  of  King  Louis  never  moved,  holding  to  their 
prisoner  and  enjoying  the  scene.  Who,  if  not  they,  had 
a  right  to  the  King's  highway? 

But  at  the  very  first  glance  Maurice  Raith  knew  the 
man,  and  resolved  if  possible  to  attach  him  to  his  own 
cavalcade.  He  recognized  the  prisoner  as  one  Billy  Mar- 
shall, a  famous  gypsy  from  Keltonhill  in  Galloway.  Also, 
what  was  more  strange,  an  answering  gleam  shot  from 
underneath  the  sombre,  slumberous  eyelids  of  the  gypsy. 
In  spite  of  the  disguise  of  carter  dress  and  walnut  stain 
the  old  expert  in  concealments  recognized  his  sometime 
officer.  But  not  a  word  or  look  betrayed  that  either  had 
ever  seen  the  other. 

Pierre  the  wagoner  did  not  hesitate  a  moment.  He 
halted  his  horse  with  a  long-drawn  professional  shout, 
clubbed  his  whip  by  twisting  the  lash  round  his  arm  and 
wrist  and  strode  masterfully  into  the  crowd. 

"  What  are  you  doing  here,  you  sulky,  runaway 
knave?"  he  cried,  striking  the  bound  man  again  and 


PIERRE    THE    WAGONER        29 

again  with  the  whip  across  his  thickly-thatched  bullet 
head  and  naked  shoulders,  till  he  moaned  aloud  with  ap- 
parent pain. 

The  woman  rose  with  a  shriek,  and  would  have  flown 
upon  her  lord's  new  enemy,  but  the  prisoner  stopped 
her  with  a  peculiar  clucking  noise,  the  first  note  of  which 
was  sufficient  to  halt  her,  though  Bet  Marshall's  fingers 
were  already  curved  into  talons  to  assault  the  wagoner's 
face. 

"  See  you,"  cried  Pierre  of  Roche-a-Bayard  and  Hoo, 
holding  up  his  papers  to  the  sergeant,  "  here  is  this  fellow 
who  was  given  to  me  to  be  my  ostler  and  under-roulier 
on  the  King's  service!  He  must  needs  get  tipsy  on  liquor 
meant  for  his  betters,  and  then  to  make  bad  worse,  over- 
run me  in  the  night.  I  am  deeply  indebted  to  you,  gen- 
tlemen all,  for  detaining  him  till  I  came  up " 

"  And  pray  who  may  you  be  that  can  afford  to  talk 
so  briskly  of  the  King's  service?"  cried  the  sergeant; 
"  we  of  the  24th  Grenadiers  had  an  idea  that  we  possessed 
some  claim  to  that  title.  Since  when  did  the  knitted 
short  clothes  and  broad  buttons  of  the  wagoner  constitute 
a  uniform  of  His  Majesty?  " 

"  Pray  cast  your  eyes  over  that,"  quoth  Pierre  the  car- 
rier, quietly,  "  and  you  will  find  that  the  King  has  many 
servants,  and  that  he  has  few  more  useful  than  those  who 
carry  his  own  good  Moselle  wine  to  his  own  faithful 
soldiers." 

"  Here,  Manse,  read  the  scrawl  aloud,"  cried  the  ser- 
geant, holding  the  certificate  upside  down,  between  his 
finger  and  thumb;  "it  is  writ  in  your  plaguey  running 
script,  and  no  man  of  his  hands  can  make  shift  to  read 
aught  but  honest  print — and,  indeed,  as  little  of  that  as 
maybe." 

A  tall  grenadier  came  forward  and  took  the  papers  out 
of  the  hand  of  his  superior  officer,  with  an  air  of  meekest 
resignation. 

He  read  the  commission  through,  the  sergeant  punct- 
uating the  sentences  with  nods. 


30  FLOWER-O'-THE-CORN 

"  That  is  very  well,"  he  said,  "  but  in  it  I  hear  no  men- 
tion of  my  prisoner,  or  description  of  his  person.  He 
is  an  able-bodied  sturdy  knave,  and  I  had  just  pressed  him 
for  His  Majesty's  military  service.  I  cannot  let  him  go 
without  cause  shown — or  (here  he  coughed  behind  his 
hand)  its  equivalent.  He  is  worth  a  gold  Louis  to  me 
at  head-quarters  any  day!  " 

"  Louis-d'ors  are  none  so  plenty  with  us  lads  of  the 
road  that  we  can  afiford  to  scatter  them  broadcast  to 
buy  back  our  drunken  ostlers.  But,"  Maurice  made  a 
grimace  and  jerked  his  thumb  behind  him,  "  all  is  not 
the  King's  sealed  wme  which  I  carry.     I  have  a  cask  of 

the  best,  that  is  at  the  service  of  my  friends,  and  if " 

Here  he  lowered  his  voice  and  spoke  into  the  ear  of 
the  soldier. 

"  Well,  well,  cast  him  loose,"  the  sergeant  ordered  ; 
"  far  be  it  from  me  to  interfere  with  the  King's  wine. 
But  when  you  meet  with  the  Marechal  de  Montrevel 
do  not  forget  to  inform  his  Excellency  what  an  excel- 
lent and  deserving  fellow  is  Sergeant  Passy,  of  the  24th 
regiment  of  Grenadiers  !  " 

"  Indeed,  I  shall  not  forget  ! "  said  the  wagoner, 
heartily;  "  but  in  the  meantime  give  me  a  hand  at  un- 
slinging  this  pretty  thing,  which  I  carry  under  my  third 
wagon;  it  does  not  bear  the  seal  royal,  but  it  will 
trickle  down  thirsty  throats  like  divine  nectar  for  all 
that!" 

The  soldiers  piled  their  pieces  with  looks  of  expecta- 
tion, and  with  right  good  will  assisted  in  broaching  a 
small  cask  of  white  wine  which  was  attached  underneath 
the  third  of  Pierre's  wagons.  Then  each  man,  from  the 
sergeant  to  the  last-joined  recruit,  wiped  his  mouth  with 
the  back  of  his  hand,  a  clear  instance  of  what  is  known  as 
"  expectant  attention." 

Meanwhile,  Billy  Marshall  and  his  wife  Bet  had  be- 
taken themselves  naturally  to  the  care  of  the  horses, 
where  they  were  much  needed.  For  ever  since  he  had 
passed  Clermont  Ferrand  Monsieur  Pierre,  the  wagoner 


PIERRE    THE    WAGONER        31 

of  Hoo,  had  been  wofully  short-handed.  One  of  the 
men  he  had  taken  on  at  Paris  deserted,  having  found  a 
sweetheart  of  certain  complaisant  charms  in  the  neigh- 
borhood of  that  city.  The  other  Pierre  had  been  glad 
to  get  rid  of  by  dismissal — a  quarrelsome  fellow,  and 
inclined  to  know  too  much  of  his  master's  business.  So 
for  the  last  forty  or  fifty  miles  Master  Dubois  of  Roche- 
a-Bayard  and  Hoo  had  done  three  men's  work,  assisted 
solely  by  such  wayside  volunteers  as  a  kind  Providence 
causes  to  spring  up  all  over  the  world  whenever  there  is 
a  man  in  trouble  with  a  horse.  (The  last  of  these  had 
made  a  bolt  for  it  nigh  Millau  bridge-end,  at  the  mere 
sight  of  King  Louis's  uniforms  upon  the  highway.) 

So  it  was  well  that  Billy  Marshall  and  Bet  his  wife  fell 
into  their  places  with  the  alacrity  of  long  custom.  Billy's 
movements  were  peculiar.  He  passed  down  the  line  of 
horses,  standing  a  moment  in  front  of  each  with  his  hands 
on  either  side  of  the  great  brass-studded  blinkers.  Then 
he  passed  his  fingers  lightly  across  the  beast's  moist  nose. 
The  horse  sucked  its  breath  suddenly  in,  blew  it  out 
again  slowly,  and  the  transaction  completed  itself  by  Billy 
Marshall  bending  forward  suddenly  and  whispering  in  the 
new  friend's  ear.  This  he  did,  while  the  soldiers  and 
Pierre  were  amicably  touching  cans,  previous  to  pour- 
ing the  good  Moselle  down  their  half-dozen  thirsty 
throats. 

The  sergeant  looked  after  Billy  a  trifle  regretfully. 

"  A  sturdy  capable  fellow  that,"  he  said,  shaking  his 
head,  "  knowing  about  horses,  too.  'Tis  as  well  that  I 
am  no  cavalry  recruiting  sergeant,  else  I  might  not  have 
let  him  go  so  easily.  I  should  advise  you  to  obtain  a 
letter  of  protection  for  him  before  you  are  a  day  older, 
besides  which  that  callet  of  his  is  by  no  means  an  ill- 
looking  wench  !  The  sergeants  of  cavalry  regiments, 
especially  such  as  gather  in  recruits — well,  you  under- 
stand !  " 

Pierre  the  Wagoner  thanked  him  profusely  for  his 
advice. 


32  FLOWER-O'-THE-CORN 

"  I  will  see  to  it  this  very  day,"  he  said. 

The  sergeant  of  grenadiers  looked  at  him  a  trifle 
strangely  over  his  cup. 

"  For  a  man  so  generously  provided  with  papers,"  he 
said,  slyly,  "  you  are  strangely  ignorant.  It  is  not  on 
the  Causse  of  Larzac  that  one  can  provide  one's  self  with 
such  letters  of  protection." 

"  And  where  may  I  be  able  to  obtain  them  ?  "  said 
Pierre,  humbly.  "  I  am  from  the  far  North,  as  you  may 
hear  !  "  He  had  the  blank  forms  in  his  breast-pocket  at 
that  moment,  but  it  was  just  as  well  to  know  whence  such 
things  came. 

"  Why,  as  to  that,  either  from  the  Governor  of  the 
Cevennes,  at  Mende,  Monsieur  de  Broglie — or  when  you 
come  to  the  camp  of  the  Marechal  de  Montrevel  ;  though 
unless  you  have  a  good  many  barrels  of  this  excellent  stufif 
to  broach,  this  man  of  yours  may  get  picked  up  by  the 
way." 

"  Now,  good  friends,  empty  out  your  canteens,  and  I 
will  fill  them  for  you,"  cried  Pierre  in  a  loud  voice,  "  and 
with  better  stufif  than  has  been  in  them  for  some  time  or 
may  be  again.  But  you,  sergeant,  must  give  me  a  paper 
saying  that  you  have  tried  this  man  in  your  company  and 
discharged  him  as  useless." 

"  That  I  will,"  the  soldier  laughed,  "  or,  at  least,  so 
will  Philip  Manse.  Once  Philip  was  a  Protestant,  as  rare 
a  psalm-singer  as  any,  but  a  few  matches  in  the  palm  of  his 
hand  applied  by  Monsieur  the  Abbe  du  Chayla  converted 
him  for  good.  A  rare  fearful  man  is  this  Manse,  but  he 
can  compose  hand-of-write  like  an  angel,  and  when  set 
between  two  steadfast  old  route-marchers  of  our  gren- 
adiers, he  can  make  shift  to  fire  off  his  piece  somewhere 
in  the  direction  of  the  enemy  !  " 

The  tall  soldier  with  the  lantern-jaws,  who  had  not 
been  thought  of  sufficient  importance  to  warrant  him  in 
drinking  along  with  his  fellows  (the  sergeant  had  taken 
Manse's  portion  down  without  remark),  was  now  called 
forward  and  ordered  to  write  a  protective  paper  which 


PIERRE    THE    WAGONER        33 

would  have  some  merit  in  it,  the  sergeant  prompting  him 
before  he  set  quill  to  paper. 

"  Write  it  in  name  of  my  Colonel,  sirrah — De  Breslin — 
do  you  hear  ?  "  ordered  the  sergeant.  "  That  will  carry 
more  weight  than  the  name  of  a  mere  halbert-shoulderer 
like  me.  Besides,  since  we  march  immediately  to  the 
north,  at  any  rate  away  from  the  Cevennes,  to  counter 
the  English  Duke  on  the  Rhine — who  will  be  any  the 
wiser  ?  There' — done  like  a  good  fellow.  A  bumper 
of  wine  for  Manse.  What  !  you  do  not  drink  ?  Well, 
your  health,  Manse.  I,  at  least,  have  no  canting  scruples, 
but  I  would  that  more  of  my  company  were  similarly 
affected." 

And  the  soldier  swigged  down  the  tall  can  of  wine  pro- 
vided for  the  scribe,  who,  meantime,  was  looking  at  his 
own  rubrication  of  the  name  De  Breslin  with  the  apprecia- 
tion of  an  artist. 

As  he  rose,  however,  from  the  bench  on  which  he  had 
been  sitting,  with  the  paper  still  in  his  hand,  he  waved  it 
to  dry  the  ink  in  such  a  way  as  to  attract  the  attention  of 
Billy  Marshall,  the  gypsy,  who  was  mending  a  broken 
strap  with  whipcord.  A  glance  of  extraordinary  meaning 
shot  between  the  two  men,  a  glance  which,  though  unseen 
by  the  sergeant  and  his  men,  was  not  lost  upon  Pierre  the 
Wagoner. 

"  Once  a  Camisard,  always  a  Camisard,"  he  muttered  to 
himself.  "  So,  at  least,  I  have  heard,  and  I  question 
whether  the  conversion  of  that  grenadier  is  quite  so 
genuine  as  his  sergeant  supposes." 


V 

THE    ROAD    TO    KELTONHILL 

A  ND  now,  Billy,"  said  the  wagoner,  abruptly  drop- 

/\  ping  the  manner  and  speech  of  Pierre  Dubois 
JL  \,  and  assuming  those  of  Captain  Maurice  Raith, 
"  how  came  you  here  ?  I  left  you  a  corporal  in  the 
Cameronians.  I  find  you  a  ragged  deserter,  about  to  be 
kidnapped  and  pressed  into  the  service  of  the  enemy. 
Pray  explain  yourself,  Corporal  William  Marshall.  You 
deserve  to  be  had  out  and  shot,  so  far  as  I  can  see." 

By  this  time  they  had  raised  the  mural  front  of  the 
Causse  of  Larzac,  and  could  look  away  across  it  toward 
the  long  lines  of  limestone  crags  which  rose,  sharp  as 
Vauban's  fortifications,  out  of  the  level  table-land.  The 
evening  was  falling  swiftly,  rose  and  orange  tones  sink- 
ing into  the  V-shaped  angles  of  the  valleys  they  were 
leaving  behind  them.  It  was  Maurice's  first  night  in 
the  true  Cevennes. 

Billy  Marshall  replied  in  the  broad  Galloway  folk  speech 
which  a  dozen  years  of  desultory  military  service  had  not 
overlaid  even  with  English  oaths  or  the  slightest  knowl- 
edge of  the  language  of  any  of  the  countries  in  which  he 
had  campaigned. 

"  Maister  Raith,"  he  said,  "  ye  hae  dune  a  guid  turn  to 
Billy  Marshall  this  day,  an'  the  deil  tak  him  and  brenn 
him  in  reid  pit-fire  gin  he  forgets  it.  Bet,  do  ye  hear 
that  ?  " 

"  I  hear,  William,"  said  his  lady.  She  was  seated  busily 
preparing  for  the  pot  a  fowl,  which  she  had  found  stray- 
ing upon  the  road  and  had  nipped  up  beneath  her  apron 

34 


THE  ROAD  TO  KELTONHILL     35 

without  permitting  the  moribund  to  emit  even  a  cry  of 
surprise.  It  was  for  this  craft  (among  other  merits)  that 
Billy,  her  husband,  graciously  permitted  Bet  to  accom- 
pany him  upon  all  his  marches  and  campaigns. 

"  Weel,  heed,  then,"  said  Billy,  sourly,' "  ye  think  o' 
nocht  but  your  belly.  Bet.  But  Billy  Marshall  o'  the 
guid  drucken  toun  o'  Kirkcudbright  is  nae  mainnerless 
landlouper,  but  a  weel-kenned  man  wi'  a  trade  o'  his  ain, 
whilk  is  juist  the  makkin'  o'  horn  spunes.  Na,  na,  an 
honest  well-doin'  man  is  Billy  and  as  mindfu'  o'  ither 
fowk's  mooths  as  he  is  o'  his  ain !  " 

"  Get  on  with  your  tale,  Marshall,"  interrupted  Mau- 
rice Raith.  "  I  have  heard  nothing  yet  to  prove  that 
you  are  not  the  deserter  I  thought  you  at  first !  " 

"  And  what  for  no,  should  I  no  be  oot  on  juist  sic  a 
wee  bit  quiet  job  as  your  ain,  captain  ?  "  insinuated  the 
gypsy,  shrewdly.  "  Ye  are  no  here  for  your  health,  as 
yin  micht  say.  I  could  guess  as  muckle  as  that  by  the  aid 
o'  the  puir  bit  heid-piece  that  the  Auldmichty  has  gi'en 
me  !  " 

"  What  I  am  doing  here  does  not  immediately  concern 
you,"  said  the  disguised  officer.  "  I  have  saved  you 
from  the  drill-sergeants  of  King  Louis.  I  want  to  be 
sure,  before  you  and  I  go  further,  whether  I  shall  have 
to  deliver  you  to  the  halter  of  the  King's  provost  mar- 
shal !  " 

The  gypsy  gave  vent  to  a  low  chuckle. 

"  It's  easy  seen  that  ye  are  no  a  richt  Galloway  man, 
captain,"  he  said,  "  na,  na — the  grandfaither  o'  ye  cam' 
frae  Nithside  wi'  thae  weary  Maxwells,  that  had  nae 
business  to  meddle  wi*  Gallowa*  ava.  Or  ye  wad  ken 
that  no  for  a'  the  hangin'  provosts  and  cornels  in  the 
airmies  o'  a'  the  Queens  an'  Emperors  and  siclike  in 
Kirsendom.  wad  Biljy  Marshall  miss  Keltonhill  fair.  Sae 
said  I  to  Major  Grier  o'  the  sax-and-twentieth,  says  I — 
'  Ye  ken  Billy,  sir,  an'  that  if  he  doesna  get  leave  to 
gang  to  Keltonhill  fair,  he  will  tak'  leeve  and  syne  be 
hangit  for  his  pains  !     Noo,  Major,  you  an'  me  are  nae 


36 


FLOWER-O'-THE-CORN 


ill  freends,  gie  me  the  leeve,  an'  let  Bet  an'  me  be  gaun, 
I'se  be  back  in  time  to  fecht  the  French  wi'  the  best 
o'  them! '  And  the  Major,  him  kennin'  me  an'  me  ken- 
nin'  him,  bade^me  drive  aboot  my  business  and  tak'  Bet 
wi'  me.  But  he  garred  me  swear  on  the  crossed  horn 
spunes  that  I  wad  be  back  to  him  in  four  months'  time. 
An'  sae  will  I,  gin  the  soles  o'  my  feet  dinna  wear  oot  on 
the  road  !  " 

"  But,"  said  Maurice  Raith,  who  knew  the  Major  of 
the  Cameronians  and  recognized  that  the  tale  was  worthy 
of  credit,  *'  in  that  case  what  are  ye  doin'  here  on  a 
mountain  in  the  very  middle  of  France,  instead  of  head- 
ing for  Antwerp  to  get  a  boat  bound  for  Leith  ?  " 

The  gypsy  looked  at  him  cunningly,  and  laid  a  broad 
grimy  finger  on  a  broad  and  grimy  nose.  "  Is  it  not 
possible  that  ye  may  hae  your  reasons  and  that  I  may  hae 
my  reasons,"  he  said,  quickly  ;  "  there's  a  sea  to  the  south 
as  weel  as  to  the  north  of  France.  And  the  shortest  cut 
is  whyles  the  langest  travel !  " 

With  which  example  of  proverbial  lore  Maurice  Raith 
had  for  the  time  to  be  perforce  content. 

By  this  time  the  horses  were  thoroughly  wearied.  The 
long  ascent  of  the  Causse  had  tried  them  severely,  and  it 
became  necessary  to  rest  them,  either  at  the  first  wayside 
inn  which  presented  itself,  or  to  make  their  camp  upon 
the  open  face  of  the  desert.  They  were,  however,  so 
close  to  the  disturbed  regions  that  the  utmost  care  was 
necessary.  Maurice  Raith  took  out  a  small  case  of  arms 
which  had  been  cunningly  concealed  in  the  sacking  un- 
der the  first  wagon.  The  eyes  of  the  gypsy  glittered  at 
the  sight. 

"  I  hae  naething  but  this  gully-knife,"  he  said,  "  an' 
faith,  a  pistol  or  twa  doesna  come  wrang  whiles  in  this 
haverin'  ootlandish  country  !  " 

He  strapped  the  satchel  of  powder  and  shot  carefully 
about  his  waist,  under  his  tattered  blue  blouse,  with 
chuckles  of  unconcealed  satisfaction. 

"  Faith,  na,"  he  said,  "  I  haena  carriet  as  muckle  guid 


THE  ROAD  TO  KELTONHILL     37 

poother  and  lead  since  I  waded  Boyne  Water  at  the 
tail  o'  auld  King  Wullie!  And  if  yer  honor  haes  the 
like  for  Bet  there,  Fse  uphaud  that  she  will  mak'  every 
bit  as  guid  a  use  o'  't  as  either  you  or  me  !  " 

"  Mind,"  said  Maurice  Raith,  "  none  of  your  caird 
tricks  here  !  Ye  are  no  on  the  Corse  o'  Slakes,  you  and 
Bet,  nor  yet  on  the  English  drove-road  ayont  Carlisle. 
Ye  are  to  threaten  none,  take  no  man's  purse,  put  no 
wayfarer  in  fear.  You  are  to  consider  yourself  under 
my  orders  as  much  as  if  you  were  in  the  camp  of  my  Lord 
Marlborough  himself.  And  more,  in  word  and  deed, 
you  are  to  treat  me  as  Pierre  Dubois,  the  wagoner  of 
Roche-a-Bayard  and  Hoo,  who  has  picked  you  up  by  the 
way,  and  is  likely  to  make  a  monstrous  bad  bargain  of 
you." 

"  Aye,  aye,  I'm  hearin'  ye  !  "  said  Billy,  the  gypsy, 
with  the  deep  inward  sullenness  of  the  race  of  Egypt 
when  they  feel  themselves  coerced  without  remedy. 

"  Pay  attention,  then,"  said  Maurice  Raith,  "  or — 
maybe  ye  have  heard  of  the  Caird  o'  Carsphairn  ?  " 

"  That  was  hangit  juist  for  a  chucky  hen  and  a  dozen 
eggs,  mair  nor  half  o'  them  clockit  !  Oh,  the  ineequity 
o'  't  !  A  fine,  heartsome,  able-bodied  man,  too  ;  at 
least,  so  they  tell  me!"  Bet  struck  in,  with  a  sugges- 
tion of  the  Irish  keen  in  her  voice. 

"  Even  so,"  said  Maurice  Raith,  "  and  his  Grace  of 
Marlborough  standing  by  to  see  that  the  knot  ran  true 
up  to  the  left  side  of  his  ear.  So  take  your  warning, 
Billy  and  Bet  !  " 

With  this  he  strode  oflF  to  test  the  halters  and  heel 
ropes  of  his  horses.  For  the  true  Caussenards,  Camisard 
and  Cadets  of  the  Cross  alike,  were  famous  horse 
stealers,  and  every  stable  in  the  limestone  country  had  two 
doors — one  that  opened  outward  and  the  other  inward,  • 
and  which  continued  to  do  so  in  spite  of  drawn  bolts 
and  shot  bars. 

So  Maurice  Raith,  till  he  should  find  himself  safe  in  the 
camp  of  the  Camisard  leaders,  preferred  to  stable  his 


38  FLOWER-O'-THE-CORN 

horses  at  the  ancient  sign  of  La  Belle  Etoile,  and  guard 
them  himself  with  his  pistols  upon  his  knees. 


It  was,  fortunately,  a  night  short  and  beneficent, 
that  whose  shadow  swept  so  swiftly  eastward  toward 
the  sunset  over  the  middle  southlands  of  the  Cevennes. 
Down  in  the  valley  of  the  Tarn,  fairest  of  the  glens  of 
France,  the  nightingales  never  ceased  singing,  but  the 
chill  spread  far  up  among  the  fantastic  peaks  of  the 
Dourbie,  and  here,  out  on  the  hoary  scalp  of  the  Larzac, 
the  frost  bit  bone-deep.  Maurice  wrapt  his  cloak 
closely  about  him  and  sat  sleepless,  listening  to  the 
voices  of  the  night ;  sometimes  there  was  a  singing  rustle 
as  of  leaves  and  distant  waters  in  that  waterless  and 
treeless  land,  sometimes  the  cry  of  a  far-wandered  lamb 
seeking  its  mother  over  the  waste,  or  the  hawking  cry 
of  the  small  owl,  quartering  the  ground  in  quest  of  field 
mice  and  great  horned  beetles. 

But  as  he  sat  there  motionless,  Maurice  had  time  to 
think,  and  was  grateful.  It  was  almost  the  first  time 
he  had  been  able  to  do  so  with  a  fairly  easy  mind  since 
he  left  the  camp  of  the  allies  before  Namur.  He  had 
dealt  severely  with  Billy  Marshall,  as  he  told  himself, 
for  the  good  of  his  gypsy  soul,  but  it  was  an  infinite 
relief  to  have  even  his  company  amid  such  dangers. 
For  he  knew  the  good  qualities  of  the  sometime  corporal 
of  Cameronians,  his  courage,  fidelity,  and  strength,  his 
unswerving  purpose  and  ready  resource  in  time  of 
danger. 

Maurice  resolved  that  Billy  should  not  see  Keltonhill 
Fair  this  year  if  possible,  but  bide  with  him  upon  the 
perilous  tablelands  of  the  Cevennes,  if  money  or  love 
could  keep  him  there. 

The  stars  swung  silently  overhead,  describing  their 
longer  or  shorter  circles  round  the  pole  star,  and  Mau- 
rice continued  to  look  into  the  gray  indefinite  waste  of 
nothingness.     His  mind  went  back  involuntarily  to  the 


THE  ROAD  TO  KELTONHILL      39 

glowing  vision  he  had  seen  among  the  corn  that  day 
above  the  Meuse — the  light  girlish  figure,  the  lips  as- 
tonishingly red,  the  eyes  bluer  than  the  skies,  at  once  sap- 
phire-dark and  diamond-bright.  Would  he  ever  see 
her  again?  Sometimes  it  seemed  little  matter  whether 
or  no. 

Her  reception  of  him  had  not  been  promising.  In 
addition  to  which  he,  Maurice  Raith,  at  the  outset  of  his 
career,  could  ill  afiford  to  "  taigle  himsel'  wi'  weemen," 
as  his  Aunt  Devorgill  would  have  said.  At  this  he 
smiled,  for  his  quick  imagination  overpassed  in  a  moment 
both  courtship  and  marriage,  and  lo  !  he  was  bringing 
home  a  bride  to  the  gray  towers  of  Castle  Raith,  on  its 
island  in  the  Raith  Water.  He  saw  his  aunt,  arrayed 
in  her  Sunday  best,  snell,  intolerant,  east-windy,  lamb- 
soft.  She  was  standing  on  the  steps  to  welcome  his  wife 
and  himself — a  rasp  as  of  rowan-berries  jelly  under  her 
tongue,  and  all  the  milk  of  human  kindness  unspent  in  the 
bosom  where  no  child  of  her  own  had  ever  lain — perhaps 
that  it  might  cherish  all  such  as  were  motherless  and 
forlorn  and  desolate — even  as  Maurice  Raith  had  been 
since  his  mother's  death. 

For  a  long  time  the  vision  diverted  him.  He  smiled 
continuously.  He  could  hear  his  aunt  scolding  him  for 
"  bringin'  the  bit  lassie  oot  on  siccan  a  day."  She  de- 
clared that  he  "  deserved  to  hae  his  lugs  daudit  !  "adding 
that  for  the  smallest  possible  monetary  consideration  she, 
Devorgilla  Raith,  would  attend  to  the  matter  herself — 
"  the  wind  was  eneuch  to  perish  the  bit  thing,  bringin'  a 
bairn  that  was  dootless  used  to  far  ither  things  to  an 
auld,  broken-doon,  damp  rickle-o'-stanes,  mair  fit  to  be 
a  den  o'  cockatrices  an'  ravenin'  wild  beasts  than  a  decent 
cumceiled  hoose  to  fetch  a  young  leddy  intil!  " 

Maurice  Raith  had  got  so  far  with  his  vision  when  he 
laughed  aloud.  It  struck  him  suddenly  that  he  had 
overlooked  one  thing,  somewhat  essential.  Who  was 
the  bride  ? 

As  when  we  try  to  recall  the  features  of  one  very  dear 


40  FLOWER-O'-THE-CORN 

newly  gone  from  us,  so  even  as  Maurice  looked,  the  face 
of  the  bride  by  his  side  became  suddenly  dim,  and  then 
vanished  altogether.  His  aunt  he  still  saw  in  vision  sharp 
and  clear,  as  well  as  the  old  gray  towers  of  Raith,  and 
the  deep  amber  pools  of  the  Raith  Water;  but  the  bride, 
whom  he  had  brought  home  to  her  own,  waxed  sud- 
denly misty  and  vague,  and  a  voice  seemed  to  speak  from 
very  far  away,  "  Go  back  and  see  that  my  lord's  letters  are 
prettily  copied  or  you  will  be  whipped  ! " 

Then  it  was  that  Maurice  Raith  slept.  The  waking 
dream  ran  into  the  clear  cool  rnists  of  sleep,  blue  and 
buoyant,  whereon  he  was  upborne  as  sweetly  as  on 
cushions  of  the  viewless  air.  The  solid  towers  of  Castle 
Raith  melted  like  pillars  of  cloud.  Only  his  Aunt  Devor- 
gill  stood  imminent  above,  threatening  him  with  up- 
lifted forefinger  "  not  to  taigle  himsel'  wi'  weemen." 

Well,  Maurice  Raith  knew  someone  who  could  not 
be  called  a  "  woman,"  with  the  least  regard,  that  is,  to 
the  meaning  of  the  words.  What,  then,  ought  this  bride 
to  be  called  ? 

Why,  Flower-o'-the-Corn,  of  course. 

And  as  he  slept  he  dreamed,  and  as  he  dreamed  he 
smiled. 


VI 

THE   MYSTERIES   OF  LOVE 

PERHAPS,  for  who  knows  the  mysteries  of  the  in- 
fluence of  soul  on  soul,  the  dream  of  the  night 
which  descended  upon  Maurice  Raith  as  he  sat 
with  his  pistols  on  his  knees,  wrapped  in  his  cloak  upon 
the  tufted  scalp  of  the  Larzac,  overpassed  the  mile  or  two 
of  misty,  frost-scented  darkness  which  separated  him 
from  a  little  double-windowed  roof-chamber  where  sat  a 
girl,  her  chin  sunk  in  the  joined  palms  of  her  hands, 
and  her  bare  dimpled  elbows  resting  lazily  upon  the  sill. 
She  looked  out  northward  and  watched  the  Starry  Bear 
sagging  lower  and  lower  as  the  night  wore  on.  The 
chill  of  the  air  struck  cold  upon  the  outer  wall  of  the 
chamber,  so  that  through  the  common  green  window- 
glass,  the  star  at  the  Plough  corner  (which  a  good  eye  can 
see  double),  was  blurred  into  a  tingling  iridescence  of  red 
and  blue  and  emerald  green.  But  this  did  not  matter. 
The  girl's  eyes  were  full  of  a  deeper  haze  than  that  which 
filled  the  valley  of  the  Dourbie  far  below,  the  misty 
wonder  of  a  maid's  eyes  as  she  looks  into  the  future  and 
sees  wonders  yet  unrealized.  The  haze  comes  otherwise 
to  a  woman.  Then  she  sees  it  mostly  when  she  tastes 
her  happiness  and  finds  her  realized  dream  sweeter, 
perhaps,  upon  her  lips,  but  somehow  other  than  she  had 
imagined — her  soul  no  longer  going  forth,  as  in  girlhood, 
upon  all  the  winds  of  fancy,  but  willingly,  and  even 
eagerly,  abiding  captive  within  the  flesh.  Then  for  the 
second  time  her  eyes  grow  misty.  And  as  for  the  third 
time,  that  is  not  with  the  view  of  any  earthly  city. 

So  Flower-o'-the-Corn  meditated,  and  her  meditation 

41 


42  FLOWER-O'-THE-CORN 

was  sweet  to  her,  as  a  free-hearted  maiden's  ought  to 
be. 

There  was  no  one  in  all  the  world  whom  she  loved 
one-tenth  so  well  as  she  loved  her  father.  For  no  man 
that  lived  (so  she  told  herself)  would  she  have  caused  to 
perish  one  lock  of  his  white  hair.  That  the  day  must 
come  when  with  rolling  drum,  muffled  and  forlorn,  and 
that  terrible  rattle  of  volleyed  musketry,  they  would  lay 
away  the  chaplain  of  Ardmillan's  regiment,  was  a  con- 
tingency too  terrible  to  be  faced.  The  young  naturally 
put  these  things  from  them  as  long  as  possible.  And 
so  also  did  Frances  Wellwood. 

Yet  for  all  that,  because  she  was  young  and  a  maid, 
and  having  arrived  at  the  period  of  her  wandering  years, 
her  mind  went  from  her,  straying  hither  and  thither 
like  a  butterfly  among  the  parterres,  finding  here  an 
innocent  daisy  and  there  a  blood-red  poppy.  She  com- 
muned much  with  herself,  this  girl,  as  was  indeed  natu- 
ral. For  there  was  no  friend  of  her  own  sex  in  all  the 
camp  with  whom  she  could  exchange  secrets  the  most 
prodigious,  as  the  manner  of  women  is. 

Flower-o'-the-Corn's  world  was  exclusively  a  world 
of  men.  Yet  of  all  these  she  knew  but  one  well — her 
father.  For  the  rest,  the  stern-faced  veterans  of  Ard- 
millan's regiment  circled  her  about  like  a  wall.  She 
was  watched  and  guarded  like  a  virgin  citadel.  She 
might  have  been  spoilt  by  too  ready  service  and  homage, 
had  she  not  been  accustomed  to  these  as  to  her  daily 
rations,  ever  since  the  time  when,  while  yet  a  young  sub- 
altern in  "  Leven's  Foot,"  Colonel  Ardmillan  had  been 
accustomed  to  lift  her  high  in  the  air  with  both  hands, 
or  ride  her  till  she  screamed  with  delight,  upon  the 
uppers  of  his  military  boot. 

Yet  for  all  her  ease  of  mind  as  to  men  in  general, 
Frances  smiled  not  ill-pleased  as  she  bethought  her  of 
that  day  among  the  Namur  corn,  by  the  side  of  the  sunken 
road,  when  at  the  parting  of  a  bush  of  broom  an  eager- 
eyed  youth  of  handsome  aspect  had  stood  dumb-stricken 


I 


THE    MYSTERIES   OF    LOVE     43 

before  her — the  fulness  of  his  homage  presently  mount- 
ing to  his  brow  and  telling  its  tale  in  the  stammering 
accents  of  his  tongue. 

She  thought  not  a  little  of  Maurice — Captain  Raith 
of  his  Grace's  staff — thought  kindly,  too.  Oh,  yes,  she 
knew  him  well,  and  his  favor  with  my  lord.  Were  not 
these  things  talked  of  whenever  the  grave-faced,  hard- 
bitten, war-worn,  infinitely  experienced  Presbyterian 
officers  of  Ardmillan's  (late  Cutts's)  regiment  and  Shields's 
Cameronians  dropped  in  of  an  evening  to  smoke  their 
pipes  with  her  father,  while  she  knitted  her  stocking  and 
listened  amid  the  bluish  haze  to  such  talk  as  seldom  fell 
to  the  lot  of  girls  to  hear — of  slave-ships  with  hundreds  of 
prayerful  Covenant  folk  cast  away  among  the  wrathful 
skerries  of  the  wild  Hebrides,  of  poisoned  arrows  whisk- 
ing out  of  the  green  depths  of  forests  tropical,  of  battle, 
murder,  and  sudden  death  stalking  broadcast  as  the 
painted  savage  swooped  into  some  quiet  New  England 
valley,  or,  as  it  might  be,  of  the  battles  and  sieges  of  the 
great  Gustavus  (whom  they  knew),  concerning  which 
last  things  some  rusty  graybeard  would  speak,  and  go 
on  speaking  as  if  he  could  never  be  silent,  or  his  hearers 
tired  of  listening. 

And  all  the  while  Patrick  Wellwood,  who  had  lain  in 
the  desert  with  one  Mr.  Richard  Cameron,  and  ridden 
with  Will  Gordon  and  that  other  Lion  of  the  Covenant 
in  the  last  surging  charge  at  Ayrsmoss  would  raise  the 
conversation  to  a  higher  plane,  by  calling  upon  these 
grim  fighters  to  observe  the  finger  of  God  in  the  things 
which  had  been,  which  were,  and  especially  the  things 
which  should  yet  come  to  pass. 

Meantime,  far  from  her  regiment,  Frances  leaned  her 
dimpled  elbow  upon  the  window-sill  and  smiled.  And 
in  his  sleep  under  the  sole  tent  of  his  cloak  some  way 
out  on  the  wold,  Maurice  Raith  also  smiled,  as  if  a  good 
angel  visited  him  in  sleep.     And  so,  perhaps,  one  did. 

But  even  as  she  leaned  upon  the  narrow  window-sill 
and  looked  abroad,  a  belated  moon  rose,  large,  pale, 
and  crumbly  with  age  about  the  edges. 


44  FLOWER-O'-THE-CORN 

The  waning  of  the  moon  is  the  time  to  see  the  Gausses 
of  France,  especially  those  which,  like  the  Causse  of 
Larzac,  are  large  enough  to  have  a  level  horizon  all 
round,  from  which  ramparts  and  towers  arise,  to  the 
eye  built  of  bleached  and  shivered  bones.  Out  on  the 
dim  waste  these  huge  shapes  glimmer  suddenly  up  like 
couchant  monsters,  the  dragons  and  mammoths  of  an 
earlier  world. 

The  moon,  gibbous  and  worm-eaten  above,  too  gray 
and  forlorn  to  cast  a  shadow  yet  bright  enough  to  reveal 
the  pebble  that  the  foot  strikes  upon,  sailed  feebly  on- 
ward. 

Small  wonder  that  demons  and  evil  sprites  haunted 
this  waste,  and  that  many  Caussenards  had  seen  the  Wild 
Horseman  shriek  past  upon  the  blast,  the  fire  blown 
far  to  either  side  from  his  charger's  nostrils  and  his  own 
head  carried  conveniently  before  him  upon  his  saddle- 
bow. 

As  Frances  sat  at  the  window  and  watched  the  late 
moon  rise,  she  was  aware  of  a  crouching  line  of  dark 
figures  that  disengaged  themselves  one  by  one  from  the 
rude  wall  of  the  mountain  village,  and  stole  across  the 
space  which  separated  the  last  houses  from  the  outer 
defences.  For  a  long  moment  each  bowed  head  and 
bent  pair  of  shoulders  were  silhouetted  against  the  great 
flattened  oval  of  the  moon  as  it  reared  itself  slowly  up 
out  of  the  valley  mists.  A  gun-barrel  rose  black  here 
and  there.  A  scabbard  clinked  sharply  on  a  pebble, 
or  in  the  distance,  as  the  light  fell  more  sideways,  a 
slant  bayonet  gleamed  momentarily  like  a  willow  leaf 
turning  its  pale  underside  to  the  blast. 

Frances  Wellwood  and  her  father  had  reached  the 
country  of  the  Cevennes  in  the  simplest  and  swiftest 
way,  by  the  Rhine  and  the  Protestant  cantons  of  Swit- 
zerland. The  pastors  of  Geneva  and  the  political  leaders 
of  that  place  had  their  own  means  of  communicating 
with  the  districts  where  their  fellow-religionists  contin- 
ued to  make  such  successful  head  against  the  forces  of 


THE    MYSTERIES    OF    LOVE    45 

the  King  and  the  all-powerful  Church.  It  was  easy 
enough,  therefore,  for  Patrick  Wellwood  and  his  daugh- 
ter to  pass  into  the  fastnesses  of  the  Cevennes  nearly 
a  month  before  a  certain  Pierre  the  Wagoner,  of  Roche- 
a-Bayard  and  Hoo,  made  his  encampment  upon  its  outer 
margin. 

Nevertheless,  so  mysterious  are  the  waves  of  appre- 
hension which  pass  across  certain  sensitive  spirits,  that 
Frances  Wellwood,  a  maid  of  camps  and  barrack-yards, 
where  trumpets  are  nightly  blown,  and  men  file  out  at 
all  hours  on  errands  dark  even  to  themselves,  felt  some- 
thing that  was  not  the  chill  of  the  hoar-frost  run  cold 
through  her  marrow  at  the  sight  of  these  dark  shadows 
crossing  the  ashen  oval  of  the  moon's  disk. 

As  they  passed  from  her  view  she  went  quickly  to  her 
father's  room.  The  door  was  unlatched.  She  went  in 
without  knocking,  and  pausing  a  moment  on  the  thresh- 
old to  listen  in  vain  for  his  breathing,  at  last  advanced 
on  tiptoe.  The  bed  was  intact.  It  had  not  been 
slept  in. 

"  He  is  in  his  closet — at  prayer !  "  she  thought,  and 
felt  with  her  hands  for  the  white  head,  in  the  place  where 
she  knew  it  would  have  been  found.  For  the  minister 
prayed  always  with  his  face,  as  it  were,  toward  Jerusa- 
lem. His  head  was  thrown  back,  and  there  are  those 
who  declare  that  on  such  occasions,  when  the  spirit  was 
mightily  moved  within  him,  his  brow  shone  haloed  in 
the  darkness  and  his  face  became  as  the  face  of  an  angel. 
And  even  Frances,  when  asked  in  future  years  if  this 
were  so,  would  neither  answer  "  yea  "  or  "  nay,"  but 
used  this  one  phrase :  "  Only  those  who  have  heard  my 
father  pray  know  what  it  is  to  pray !  " 

"  He  is  not  here ! "  she  murmured,  stepping  back 
quickly,  when  she  felt  that  the  niche  was  empty.  "  Can 
he  have  wandered  out  again?  He  is  so  careless.  He 
promised  me  faithfully  after  the  last  time.  But  then 
he  is  very  forgetful !  " 

For  Frances  had  bound  her  father  by  a  great  oath 


46 


FLOWER-O'-THE-CORN 


not  to  go  out  and  wander  alone  hour  after  hour  as  was 
his  habit,  ever  since  he  had  welhiigh  been  shot  by  one 
of  the  camp  sentries  at  the  first  siege  of  Namur. 

"  Pluck  your  apples  elsewhere,  if  you  must,"  she  had 
bidden  him  sharply.  "  These  are  not  the  banks  of  Ulai, 
but  of  Meuse,  and  a  musket-ball,  be  it  French  or  Eng- 
lish, or  moulded  by  the  Holy  Roman  Empire,  is  no  re- 
specter of  persons !  " 

"  Either  he  has  broken  his  word,  or  he  has  taken  to 
dreaming  again,"  she  murmured  to  herself,  unhappily. 
Then  suddenly  she  remembered  the  silent  exodus  she 
had  seen,  and  in  a  transport  of  fear  she  clasped  her  hands 
and  cried  aloud,  *'  They  have  taken  him  away  against 
his  will.  Otherwise  he  would  never  have  gone  without 
telling  me." 

Frances  stood  a  moment  thinking  swiftly.  Then  she 
went  to  the  corner  of  her  chamber,  and  taking  down  a 
dark  fold  of  Spanish  lace,  threw  it  about  her  head,  gath- 
ering it  round  her  neck  in  the  manner  of  a  mantilla. 
Then,  since  the  night  promised  to  be  cold,  she  drew 
her  father's  great  cloak  about  her.  The  window  was 
high,  and,  save  to  an  athlete,  impossible ;  though,  in 
all  conscience,  the  stonework  of  the  old  wall  built  by  the 
Templars  was  crumbling  enough.  But  Frances  Well- 
wood  knew  another  way  of  it.  Her  father  had  gone 
out,  and  by  the  same  road  he  had  taken,  she  could  de- 
scend also.  She  was  positive  that  he  had  not  passed  her 
door  unheard.     She  had  been  too  wide  awake. 

She  remembered,  however,  that  the  low  archway 
which  her  father  used  for  an  entrance  into  his  prayer 
niche,  had  a  door  that  opened  some  whither.  Accord- 
ingly, she  turned  back  there,  and,  setting  her  hand  upon 
the  latch,  easily  pushed  the  iron-bound  portal  open. 
She  came  against  the  outer  dark  as  against  a  wall,  and 
found  herself  at  the  head  of  an  outside  stair,  which  (as 
in  many  of  the  houses  of  the  eastern  part  of  her  native 
land)  connects  the  second,  and  even  the  third,  story 
with  the  ground. 


THE    MYSTERIES    OF    LOVE     47 

When  she  had  time  to  look  about  her,  lo !  the  stars 
were  blinking  merrily.  The  heat  haze  in  the  valley  had 
altogether  vanished,  and  there  was  a  snell  and  piercing 
breath  of  frost  abroad. 

Still  there  was  neither  sight  nor  sound  of  her  father. 

Frances  stood  still  as  death  while  one  might  count 
twenty,  listening.  Everywhere  there  was  a  great  silence. 
The  black  windows  of  the  Camisard  village  beneath 
seemed  to  be  spying  upon  her.  The  streets  of  La  Ca- 
valerie  were  narrow,  irregular,  and  drowned  in  deep 
shadow.  The  moon,  grown  old  and  sickly  of  aspect, 
seemed  unable  to  make  her  pale  beams  penetrate  them. 
Her  light  sifted  down  scarce  brighter  than  so  much  star- 
shine. 

But  Flower-o'-the-Corn  had  put  her  hand  to  the 
plough  and  she  would  not  go  back.  Resolutely  she 
drew  her  cloak  about  her,  and  set  forth  to  look  for  her 
father.  He  had  taken  his  little  red  double-volumed 
Covenanter's  Bible  with  him.  She  had  made  sure  of 
that.  So  it  appeared  to  Frances  that  the  errand  upon 
which  he  had  gone  must  be  a  religious  one.  Indeed, 
at  that  hour  and  in  that  place  it  was  not  likely  that  he 
would  have  gone  forth  on  any  other.  But  the  old  fight- 
ing-blood of  the  man  who  had  ridden  with  Grey  of 
Chryston,  and  the  two  Camerons,  at  Ayrsmoss,  might 
possibly  have  persuaded  him  that  it  was  still  a  religious 
duty  to  hew  Agag  in  pieces  before  the  Lord.  In  short, 
Patrick  Wellwood's  mission  might  very  well  be  religious 
without  being  at  all  pacific. 

Flower-o'-the-Corn  did  not  hesitate  a  moment  after 
her  first  half-feminine  uncertainty.  Swiftly  and  lightly 
she  glided  up  one  narrow  close  and  down  another,  till 
she  found  herself  within  the  outer  belt  of  gardens,  whose 
multitudinous  intersecting  walls  made  such  excellent 
fore-cover  to  these  Puritan  peasants,  militant  against 
spiritual  wickedness  among  the  High  Cevennes. 

She  had  often  enough  found  her  way  out  of  the  laby- 
rinth by  day.     It  was  a  task  somewhat  more  difficult 


48  FLOWER-O'-THE-CORN 

by  night.  But  with  a  keen  sense  of  direction  (when 
outside  the  walls  of  a  house)  Flower-o'-the-Corn  pres- 
ently succeeded  in  surmounting  the  last  stone  dyke  and 
stood  in  the  ditch,  or  dry  trench  rather,  which  defended 
the  fortified  village  of  La  Cavalerie. 

A  little  to  the  left,  above  the  low  earthen  rampart, 
Frances  could  see  the  head  and  shoulders  of  a  Camisard 
sentinel.  At  intervals  she  could  hear  the  bagpipe  drone 
of  his  chanted  psalm.  Anon  there  came  to  her  ear  a 
metallic  sound  as  he  grounded  his  piece  on  the  battle- 
ments, and  gazed  away  northward,  motionless  as  those 
pallid  Hmestone  pinnacles  on  the  skyline. 

Frances  continued  to  crouch  quietly  in  the  ditch  till 
the  man  had  taken  himself  ofif  to  the  other  end  of  his 
beat.  His  watch  to-night  was  doubtless  somewhat  per- 
functory, knowing  as  he  did  that  the  greater  part  of  the 
effective  fighting  force  of  the  village  was  out  upon  the 
Causse  in  front  of  his  position. 

At  last  the  chant  of  his  psalms,  lilted  in  Camisard 
fashion  with  copious  grace-notes  and  quavers,  grew 
faint  in  the  distance.  Frances  caught  up  her  cloak  and 
skirts  and  sped  hastily  across  the  sparse  grass  of  the 
sheep  pasture,  in  the  track  of  the  expedition  she  had  seen 
leave  the  village  so  silently. 

The  moon  was,  for  the  time  being,  behind  a  cloud, 
and  shone  through  various  thin  places  here  and  there, 
like  a  lantern  that  is  moved  to  and  fro  in  a  tent. 

There  was  no  trail  to  be  followed  upon  the  dusty 
pebble-strewn  grayness  of  the  limestone  upland.  But 
as  the  dark  figures  took  their  way  across  the  moon's 
disk,  Frances  had  almost  involuntarily  observed  that  a 
long,  low,  jagged  scarp  of  limestone  showed  like  a 
broken  tooth  against  the  rising  moon,  almost  in  the  line 
of  their  march. 

This  now  appeared  very  obvious  immediately  in  front 
of  her,  lying  pallid  and  unearthly  right  across  her  path, 
the  moon's  rays  striking  mistily  upon  it,  while  the  pass- 
ing shadow  of  the  cloud  still  hung  gloomily  over  the 


THE    MYSTERIES    OF    LOVE     49 

face  of  the  desert  and  the  fortified  Camisard  village  which 
she.  had  left  behind  her. 

Flower-o'-the-Corn  felt  a  sudden  terror  overpower 
her.     She  was,  of  course,  armed  as  usual. 

But  there  seemed  to  be  some  daunting  influence 
abroad  that  night  upon  the  waste.  It  was  so  high  up 
under  the  moon,  so  sharply  overarched  by  the  tingling 
stars,  that  somehow  spirits  good  and  evil  alike  might  be 
expected  to  choose  it  as  their  natural  playground  in 
preference  to  the  warm,  homely,  farm-bestrewn  valleys 
beneath,  where  dogs  barked  a-night  and  cocks  crew 
clarionlike  in  the  dawn. 

But  here,  as  Frances  stole  on  into  a  little  circle  of 
blanched  and  moonlit  crags  which  rose  out  of  the  bald 
plain,  casting  long  jagged  shadows,  like  a  lunar  crater, 
she  shuddered  a  little  as  she  felt  the  darkness  of  the 
narrow  gorge  closing  suddenly  about  her.  Then  with 
a  sense  of  relief  she  emerged  again  into  the  circle  of  low 
sierras,  the  teeth,  as  it  were,  of  the  extinct  volcano : — 

There,  there — quite  near  her,  because  the  circle  of 
pallid  rocks  measured  nowhere  more  than  two  hundred 
yards  across,  were  men  who  crawled  nearer  and  nearer 
to  a  certain  point  on  the  opposite  face  of  a  natural  am- 
phitheatre. 

She  saw  the  glitter  of  their  accoutrements  as  they 
glided  on.  A  horse  neighed  quite  near  by,  but  unseen 
because  hidden  somewhere  beyond  the  rock  circle. 
Another  shook  its  headgear  as  it  cropped,  as  if  fretted  by 
the  narow  radius  of  a  head  rope. 

Suddenly  on  a  rock,  flat  on  top  like  a  table,  she  saw 
a  man  spring  erect  and  throw  up  his  hands.  He  showed 
black  against  a  slate-blue  horizon.  Instant  to  the  signal 
here  and  there  half-a-dozen  shots  went  ofT,  clanging 
loudly  among  the  rocks  and  reverberating  from  innu- 
merable narrow  gorges.  A  horse  screamed  with  sudden 
pain,  and  at  the  sound  Frances  ran  forward  in  time  to 
see  the  dark  crawling  figures  raise  themselves  erect  and 
rush  upon  a  group  of  wagons  and  horses  encamped 
some  distance  out  on  the  plain. 


50  FLOWER-O'-THE-CORN 

It  seemed,  however,  to  be  no  surprise,  for  flashes  of 
fire  met  them  here  and  there  as  they  ran.  Horses 
snorted  and  stampeded — men  rising  as  it  seemed  from 
the  ground,  and  clinging  wildly  to  their  ropes  and  head- 
stalls. 

There  was  no  shouting  on  either  side.  Only  a  knot 
or  two  of  dark  bodies  writhed  and  struggled  on  the 
ground,  and  anon  grew  still. 

The  camp  of  Pierre,  the  King's  wagoner,  was  in  the 
hands  of  the  assailants  sooner  than  he  had  anticipated. 
He  himself  lay  gagged  and  helpless  while  the  Camisard 
leaders  investigated  first  the  royal  marks  on  his  wagons, 
then  the  commissions  in  his  pockets,  and  last  of  all  the 
official  seals  which  had  been  set  upon  his  casks  of  wine. 

A  dark  lantern  was  flashed  upon  the  faces  of  the  three 
prisoners. 

"  Let  us  question  the  servant,"  said  a  tall,  red-bearded 
man,  evidently  a  leader  among  the  assailants.  "  We  will 
make  him  tell  us  what  the  King's  wine  and  the  King's 
wagoners  are  doing  here  so  far  from  the  Marshal's 
camp.  What  mischief  does  this  portend?  We  must 
find  out  and  that  suddenly." 

"  Kill  the  accursed  of  God — I  bid  you,  brethren,  the 
enemies  of  His  people ! "  commanded  another  voice 
sternly.  "  Let  them  that  carry  the  wine  for  the  lips  of 
evil-doers  drink  of  the  cup  of  wrath  and  anger  and  trem- 
bling. Kill — I  say — kill !  Cast  body  and  soul  quick 
into  hell !  " 

And  among  that  throng  of  fierce  grave  men  there 
arose  an  ominous  murmuring. 

"  Well  spoken,  Catinat  the  Prophet,  cursed  is  he  that 
spareth  the  oppressor!  Shall  aught  but  iron  break  the 
Northern  iron?  Hearken  to  the  prophet  Catinat!  He 
speaks  truth  and  wisdom  !  " 

Then  Catinat,  of  the  folk  called  Camisards,  lifted  up 
his  voice  and  prophesied  aloud,  glad  that  for  once  his 
words  were  listened  to. 

"  Hear   ye,    people   of   the   heath    and   of  the   high- 


THE    MYSTERIES    OF    LOVE     51 

parched  places  in  the  wilderness,  God  hath  appointed 
to  us  four  torments  for  our  sins — the  sword  to  slay, 
the  dogs  to  tear,  the  fowls  of  heaven  to  devour,  and  the 
beasts  of  the  earth  to  destroy.  But  He  hath  also  given 
His  people  power  to  break  the  sword,  to  kill  the  raven- 
ing dogs,  to  take  the  fowls  in  a  net,  and  to  destroy  the 
evil  beasts  from  off  the  face  of  the  earth !  " 

And  again  the  murmur  rose,  low,  deep,  and  full  of 
anger,  "  Kill!  Kill!  Have  they  spared  us?  Have  they 
not  slain  young  and  old  alike,  the  mother  with  the  babe, 
both  gray  hair  and  goldilocks?  The  accursed  of  God 
shall  not  live  half  their  days !  " 

The  tall  man  with  the  red  beard  had  meantime  been 
interrogating  the  gypsy.  But  he  could  not  get  Billy 
Marshall  beyond  the  muttering  of  threats  and  oaths  in 
an  unknown  tongue,  which  sounded  profane  even  to  his 
questioner. 

"  I  can  make  nothing  of  him.  He  is  either  a  fool  or 
a  madman!"  he  said  at  last,  rising  up  from  his  knees. 
"  What  is  your  will,  men  of  the  Bond  ?  Shall  these 
die?" 

"  Aye,  let  them  die ! "  cried  the  crowd,  pressing 
fiercely  forward,  each  with  a  weapon  in  his  hand.  And 
Catinat  added,  "  They  are  of  the  Canaanites  who  must 
first  be  cut  off  from  the  promised  land  ere  the  people  of 
God  shall  have  rest  therein !  " 

But  before  a  weapon  could  be  unsheathed,  the  light 
figure  of  Flower-o'-the-Corn  flashed  through  between 
them.  Her  father's  Geneva  cloak  was  about  her.  The 
oblong  white  bands  of  the  fully-ordained  preacher  still 
depended  from  underneath  the  broad  collar. 

"  Stay,"  she  cried,  "  Brothers  of  the  Bond,  ye  shall 
not  do  this  deed  of  shame.  These  men  are  innocent — 
at  worst,  they  are  but  servants  of  those  that  do  us  evil. 
Remember  Him  who  said  that  all  they  who  take  the 
sword  shall  perish  by  the  sword.  And  remember  also 
Him  who  restored  the  ear  of  the  high  priest's  servant 
which  Simon  Peter  cut  off." 


52  FLOWER-O'-THE-CORN 

This  appeal  was  precisely  that  which  was  best  suited 
to  influence  the  men  about  her.  Frances  Wellwood  was 
not  her  father's  daughter  for  naught. 

"  I  ask  not  that  the  two  men  and  the  woman  shall  go 
free,"  she  cried.  "  Take  them  back  to  the  village  with 
all  their  horses  and  gear.  Then,  if  they  have  done  evil, 
if  the  guilt  of  innocent  blood  be  on  their  hands,  let  them 
die  the  death.  But  let  not  the  Brethren  of  the  Bond 
slay  the  innocent  in  cold  blood !  " 

"  There  is  matter  in  what  the  girl  says,"  cried  one, 
turning  the  lantern  about  that  he  might  see  the  effect 
of  her  words  on  his  fellows ;  "  back  to  the  village  with 
them  !     Let  them  be  judged  there !  " 

"  Nay,  let  them  die  here  and  now,"  cried  the  Prophet; 
"  pollute  not  the  camp  of  Israel  with  their  presence.  As 
Agag  brought  evil  to  King  Saul,  so  shall  tlie  sparing  of 
these  come  between  you  and  your  righteousness!  " 

It  was  Catinat,  the  man  who  had  claimed  the  right  of 
prophecy,  who  spoke  again,  and  seen  in  the  light  of  the 
swaying  lantern,  the  faces  of  the  men  changed  and  fal- 
tered even  as  he  spoke. 

Some  were  for  mercy,  and  cried,  "  To  the  village  with 
them  !  Let  the  ministers  judge  !  "  But  there  remained 
a  dark-browed  minority,  men  of  much  sufifering  and 
many  travailings,  eye-for-eye  and  tooth-for-tooth  men, 
who  continued  to  edge  nearer  to  the  prisoners,  finger- 
ing restlessly  at  their  weapons. 

The  quick  instinct  of  Frances  Wellwood  caught  the 
movement.  She  drew  her  pistol  and  set  herself  deter- 
minedly in  the  front,  standing  almost  across  the  pros- 
trate body  of  Pierre  the  Wagoner.  In  the  feeble  uncer- 
tain light  of  the  lantern  she  saw  that  a  cruel  gag  had 
been  thrust  into  his  mouth.  She  bent  down  and  released 
the  V-shaped  twig,  wrapped  about  with  a  handkerchief, 
which  had  been  used  to  hold  the  jaws  apart. 

**  At  least  let  the  man  answer  for  himself,"  she  cried. 
"  Who  and  what  are  you? — Speak!  " 

The  wagoner  was  too  much  exhausted  with  his  late 


THE    MYSTERIES    OF    LOVE     53 

rough  experiences  and  present  pain  to  do  more  than 
hft  up  his  finger  and  point  to  the  second  of  the  three 
wagons,  that  which  carried  the  largest  cask  of  wine.  It 
was  marked  with  much  distinctness :  "  For  the  private 
cellar  of  the  Marechal  de  Montrevel,  a  present  from  his 
most  Christian  Majesty," 

"  There,"  said  Pierre  the  Wagoner,  hoarsely.     "  Let 
what  you  find  there  speak  for  me !  " 


VII 

THE    CHIEF   OF   THE   CAMISARDS 

THEN  was  seen  a  wonderful  sight.  The  plunder 
of  a  King's  wagons  by  the  Camisard  peasants  of 
the  mountains. 

"  Respect  private  property!  In  Jean  Cavalier's  absence 
I  command  here!"  cried  the  tall,  red-bearded  man. 
"  Take  only  that  which  bears  the  King's  mark." 

Nevertheless  the  men  actually  sprang  upon  the  great 
cask  as  it  lay  in  its  cradle  upon  the  long  wagon,  and  with 
hatchets,  crowbars  and  other  wagoners'  gear  for  clearing 
obstacles  from  the  road,  would  doubtless  quickly  have 
reduced  the  barrel  to  its  component  staves. 

But  Pierre  the  Wagoner,  from  where  he  lay,  still 
bound  (though  now  ungagged),  upon  the  rough  pebbles, 
said  hoarsely  to  Frances  Wellwood:  "  Tell  them  to  knock 
in  the  upper  bung;  but,  for  the  present,  to  leave  the 
lower." 

Instinctively  the  men  obeyed,  and  this  is  what  they 
found.  Across  the  whole  length  of  the  great  cask,  just 
above  the  lower  bunghole,  a  flooring  or  partition  had 
been  built.  Beneath  in  the  lowermost  hollow  there  was 
still  a  sufficiency  of  drink  to  satisfy  many  thirsty  souls — 
that  is,  if  anyone  had  taken  the  notion  to  tap  the  King's 
puncheon. 

But  above,  all  was  dry  as  a  bone,  and  the  Camisards, 
with  cries  of  joy,  drew  from  its  roomy  depths  a  multi- 
plicity of  arms  and  gunpowder,  packages  of  the  best 
British  manufacture,  Genevan  Bibles  and  Camisard  ban- 
ners with  various  inscriptions,  medicines  and  comforts 

54 


CHIEF    OF    THE    CAMISARDS      S5 

for  the  wounded,  together  with  a  considerable  packet  of 
papers  wrapped  in  oilskin,  and  indorsed  as  follows: 

To  be  opened  only  in  the  presence  of  the  Accredited  Leaders 
of  the  People  called  Camisards  and  of  our  own  Envoy  and 
Plenipotentiary,  Pierre  Dubois,  presently  roulier  at  Roche-a- 
Bayard  and  Hoo. 

Marlborough. 

Eugene. 

By  this  time  the  small  surprise  party  of  fighting 
Camisards  who  had  made  the  attack  was  reinforced  by 
others,  most  of  whom  carried  lanterns,  and  rough  pro- 
tected lamps  of  iron  such  as  are  used  in  stables  and  barns 
in  the  country. 

Frances  Wellwood  stood  beside  the  man  whose  life 
she  had  saved  and  looked  upon  the  swarming  multitude 
as  each  new  discovery  of  arms  and  armament  was  made. 
And  when  out  of  the  last  cask  (addressed  to  Monsieur  the 
Marechal  de  Montrevel)  a  small  lield-piece,  completely 
equipped,  was  extracted,  she  became  nearly  as  excited  as 
the  poor  village  folk,  who,  lifting  their  clasped  hands 
toward  the  heavens,  joined  with  one  accord  in  the  old 
Huguenot  chaunt: 

fehovah  !    fehovah  ! 

Croire  en  toi,  c'est  la  vie. 
Augment e  nous  la  foi, 

Amen  /     Amen  ! 

For  the  shining  field-piece,  with  its  inscription  in  letters 
of  gold:  "  To  our  fdhzv-rcligionists  struggling  for  lib- 
erty, from  their  Brethren  of  the  States-General  of  Hol- 
land," seemed  to  bring  these  poor  ignorant  peasants, 
driven  and  harried  by  the  great  and  powerful  of  their 
own  folk,  into  one  company  with  the  whole  Church  of 
the  First  Born,  militant  on  earth.  At  last  they  knew  that 
they  were  not  alone.  The  glitter  of  the  polished  steel 
barrel  was  more  convincing  to  them  than  many  embas- 


56 


FLOWER-O'-THE-CORN 


sies.  The  Lord's  Folk,  embattled  on  other  fields,  remem- 
bering Zion  by  other  Babylonian  waters,  were  not  un- 
mindful of  them,  God's  poor  persecuted  remnant  on  the 
Cevennes. 

And  so  the  solemn  chaunt  went  upward,  mingled  now 
with  the  weeping  of  women,  now  drowned  amid  the  ex- 
cited shoutings  of  men,  as  Pierre  the  Wagoner,  mightily 
recovered  by  means  of  a  draught  of  his  own  wine  poured 
down  his  throat,  piloted  them  through  his  stores,  reserv- 
ing only  the  packet  done  up  in  oilcloth  for  a  future 
occasion.  And  all  the  while  Frances  Wellwood  watched 
him,  a  strange  remembrance  or  vague  evasive  something 
teasing  restlessly  at  her  heart. 

As  for  Pierre  the  Wagoner  he  had  recognized  the  girl 
of  his  waking  vision  in  the  Namur  cornfield  at  the  first 
glance,  even  while  he  lay  there  on  the  hard  pebbles  bound 
and  at  the  point  of  death.  But,  perhaps  remembering  his 
small  success  in  his  capacity  of  aide  to  my  Lord  Duke, 
the  thought  came  to  him — "  She  shall  know  me  no  more 
as  Captain  Maurice  Raith,  but  since  she  has  saved  Pierre 
the  Wagoner,  Pierre  shall  I  be,  and  we  will  see  if  her 
heart  is  as  hard  here  as  it  was  in  the  camp  at  Namur." 

The  process  of  disintegrating  Pierre's  stores  was  al- 
most concluded  when,  with  the  fast  brightening  light  of 
the  autumn  morning,  breaking  in  waves  of  rose  and 
orange  up  out  of  the  eastern  valley  whence  the  sun  must 
rise,  there  appeared  two  men  upon  the  scene.  As  they 
came  in  sight  Flower-o'-the-Corn  recognized  the  taller  of 
the  two  as  her  father,  and  ran  to  him  fleet-foot. 

"Where  have  you  been?"  she  cried.  "Why  did  not 
you  tell  me  you  were  going  away?  Are  you  returned 
safe  and  sound  ?  " 

These  were  a  few  of  the  hasty  questions  which  the 
daughter  put  to  the  chaplain  of  Ardmillan's  regiment,  as 
she  clung  to  his  arm  and  looked  up  tenderly  into  his 
face. 

"  I  am  well — a  little  fatigued,  mayhap,  with  being  so 
long  upon  my  feet,"  said  the  old  man,  patting  her  cheek, 


CHIEF    OF    THE    CAMISARDS      ^j 

"  but  very  greatly  is  my  soul  enriched  within  me.  This 
night  I  have  seen  cause  to  sing  songs  of  deliverance. 
Yea,  my  feet  have  trodden  in  a  narrow  way,  pavemented 
with  promises  ripe  and  precious,  and  overhung  with  all 
the  clvisters  of  Eschol,  yea,  even  the  vintages  of  Engedi." 

The  dawn  grew  brighter,  a  cool  lucid  clearness.  Fran- 
ces looked  about  her  with  eager  curiosity,  to  watch  the 
wondrous  sight  of  the  pillage  of  the  great  wagons.  And 
perhaps  with  yet  more  anxiety  to  see  the  face  of  the 
King's  wagoner,  Pierre  of  Roche-a-Bayard  and  Hoo. 

But  to  her  disappointment  he  had  withdrawn  himself 
along  with  the  young  man  who  had  arrived  with  the  old 
minister  upon  the  camping-ground.  The  two  were  walk- 
ing at  some  distance  from  the  busy  throng  of  Camisards, 
who,  with  the  somewhat  surly  assistance  of  Billy  Mar- 
shall and  his  wife  Bet,  were  now  harnessing  the  horses  in 
the  wagons,  in  order  to  convey  the  whole  safely  within 
the  defences. 

The  village  had  emptied  itself  upon  the  plain.  The 
whole  assemblage  buzzed  like  a  hive.  And  though  the 
youth  of  undistinguished  appearance  and  middle  height, 
who  now  walked  to  and  fro  with  the  wagoner,  had 
scarcely  said  a  word,  there  was  about  him  such  an  air  of 
conscious  power  and  command,  that  neither  Catinat  the 
Prophet,  nor  yet  Roland  of  the  Red  Beard,  had  uttered 
a  word  after  his  arrival.  Not  that  he  gave  any  orders 
himself.  On  the  contrary,  he  seemed  rather  to  listen  to 
everyone  and  say  nothing.  He  heard  the  accounts  of 
the  attack  and  of  the  intervention  of  the  daughter  of  the 
Genevan  pastor,  with  an  unmoved  countenance,  his  clean 
clear  eyes  of  gray  darting  every  way,  and  seeming  to  take 
in  everything.  As  he  looked  at  Flower-o'-the-Corn, 
however,  something  bright  and  youthful  flashed  athwart 
the  too-early  gravity  of  his  countenance. 

With  the  swift  recognition  and  acknowledgment 
wherewith  men  of  power  visit  each  other,  through  all  dis- 
guise this  young  man  had  discerned  that  Pierre  the 
Wagoner  was  other  than  he  seemed.    The  two  withdrew 


58 


FLOWER-O'-THE-CORN 


together,  and  in  five  minutes  the  sealed  oilskin  packet  of 
instructions  had  passed  from  hand  to  hand. 

The  young  man  was  about  to  tear  it  open  when  Mau- 
rice Raith  directed  his  attention  to  the  superscription 
written  in  my  Lord  Marlborough's  own  hand:  "  To  be 
opened  only  in  presence  of  the  Accredited  Leaders  of  the 
People  called  Camisards." 

The  young  man  laughed  lightly  and  even  a  little  scorn- 
fully. 

"  Ask  them,"  he  said,  with  a  wave  of  his  hand  to  the 
men  of  La  Cavalerie;  "the  Camisards  of  the  Cevennes 
have  but  one  leader,  and  the  name  of  him  is  Jean  Cava- 
Her." 

He  bowed  a  little  mockingly  as  he  spoke. 

The  disguised  wagoner  of  Roche-a-Bayard  and  Hoo 
fell  back  in  astonishment. 

"You!"  he  cried,  "you!  Why,  you  are  but  a  boy. 
You  are  never  that  Jean  Cavalier  before  whom  the  best 
generals  of  France — the  Marechal  de  Montrevel  him- 
self  " 

"  No,  not  I,"  said  the  young  man,  gravely  lifting  his 
hat,  "  of  a  truth,  not  I — but  the  God  of  Battles,  He  hath 
given  us  the  victory!  I  myself  am  nothing.  The  men 
are  good  fellows  and  willing,  but  with  little  training. 
Still  they  will  follow,  and  so  the  great  thing  is  that  some- 
one should  lead.  I  do  as  well  as  another.  Never  have  I 
seen  a  hope  so  forlorn  that  I  could  not  find  ten  men  to 
follow  me.  And  you  who  are  a  soldier  know  that  when 
ten  men  arrive  upon  any  one  place,  in  which  there  are 
ten  already,  there  is  not  room  for  twenty.  One  band  or 
the  other  must  leave.  I  take  care  that  it  shall  not  be 
niine.    That  is  all." 

"  You  have  enunciated  a  great  military  truth,"  said 
Maurice  Raith;  "and  one  which  my  Lord  Marlborough 
constantly  practises  in  his  campaigns.  But  I  have  one 
thing  to  ask  of  you.  General  Cavalier " 

"  I  am  no  general,"  interrupted  the  youth,  flushing  a 
little  at  the  name,  "  only  a  poor  lad  of  the  Cevennes.    I 


CHIEF    OF    THE    CAMISARDS      59 

claim  no  rank  and  use  none.  I  am  even  as  the  others; 
only  because  I  lead  them — well,  they  are  content  to  take 
their  orders  from  me,  that  is  all!  " 

"And  what  more  would  you  have?"  said  Maurice, 
smiling;  "  you  have  the  advantages  without  the  disabili- 
ties of  rank." 

"  You  had,  I  think,  something  to  ask  me?  "  said  Cava- 
lier, as  if  unwilling  to  discuss  the  subject  further. 

"  Only  this,"  said  Maurice  Raith;  "  I  have  made  you 
acquainted  with  my  rank  and  credentials.  You  know 
that  I  am  fully  empowered  to  treat  by  the  Allies.  But  it 
will,  as  you  must  perceive,  be  most  hampering  to  me  to 
be  known  for  what  I  am.  Let  me  remain,  then,  save  to 
you  and  those  whom  you  deign  to  honor  with  your  con- 
fidence, no  more  than  poor  Pierre  the  Wagoner  of  Bra- 
bant— a  sympathizer  indeed  with  your  cause,  as  indeed  I 
am — but  only  an  instrument  to  carry  out  the  designs  of 
greater  men." 

"  Your  incognito  shall  be  safe  with  me,"  said  Cavalier, 
courteously;  "  I  see  your  point.  You  have  to  carry  back 
our  answers  to  the  Duke,  and  it  may  be  (if  things  march 
prosperously)  return  again  to  these  mountain  tops.  I 
give  you  my  word  that  your  wish  shall  be  respected.  It 
will  not  cost  you  much  loss  of  luxury.  For  we  are  poor 
folk  here  on  the  Causses  and  could  give  Prince  Eugene 
or  the  Commander-in-Chief  himself  but  little  better  ac- 
commodation than  that  which  Pierre  Dubois,  the  wag- 
oner, shall  share  with  us." 

"  Nevertheless,  you  will  guard  my  secret,"  repeated 
Maurice,  anxiously;  "and  especially  (I  have  my  reasons 
for  asking  it)  from  the  Genevan  minister  presently  so- 
journing with  you,  the  Pastor  Wellwood." 

There  was  an  unmistakable  air  of  relief  on  the  face  of 
the  young  leader  of  the  Camisards  as  he  gave  the  promise 
required  of  him. 

"  You  will  not  take  it  ill,  then,"  he  said,  "if  after  this 
occasion  I  treat  you  somewhat  distantly,  and  if  my  orders 
to  you  are  even  as  those  which  I  give  to  my  own  men?" 


6o  FLOWER-O'-THE-CORN 

"  I  thank  you,"  said  Maurice  Raith;  "  I  have  been  for 
a  long  season  under  the  personal  commands  of  my  Lord 
Duke,  and,  heaven  knows,  they  are  plainly  enough  ex- 
pressed." 

The  two  young  men  laughed  and  parted,  Cavalier  call- 
ing after  Maurice  that  all  his  equipment  would  be  found 
in  the  stables  of  the  Templarie  at  La  Cavalerie,  and  that 
he  was  to  report  if,  by  mischance,  anything  was  lacking, 

"  I  do  not  wish,"  he  said,  "  that  when  you  return  to 
your  masters  you  should  have  to  report  to  them  that  we 
of  the  Cevennes  are  thieves  and  robbers!  " 

Whereupon  Pierre  of  Roche-a-Bayard  and  Hoo  sa- 
luted and  fell  in  at  the  tail  of  his  displenished  wagons. 
The  young  Camisard  leader  looked  about  him  for  his 
companion  of  the  past  night.  The  pastor  was  standing  in 
close  speech  with  his  daughter,  both  of  them  looking 
away  thoughtfully  into  the  orange  distance. 

As  Maurice  Raith  glanced  back  over  his  shoulder, 
young  Cavalier  crossed  toward  them,  walking  quickly 
and  eagerly.    The  sun  rose. 


I 


VIII 

i 

MY   DAUGHTER   YVETTE 

THE  village  of  La   Cavalerie  lies  well  out  upon 
the  plain  face  of  the  great  Causse  of  Larzac, 
where   it   turns   upward   like   that   of  a   dead 
man  to  the  skies. 

Four  roads  cross  each  other  there,  and  the  strange 
mamelons  and  ridges  of  rock  surrounding  it  constitute 
natural  defences  which  for  many  years  had  been  assid- 
uously strengthened  by  the  Camisards. 

Originally  La  Cavalerie  had  been  a  possession  of  the 
Knights  Templars,  and  part  of  the  walls  were  still  intact 
wherewith  the  military  monks  had  made  themselves  a 
fortress  and  house  of  defence  in  the  wilderness. 

As  Maurice  Raith  approached  the  place  for  the  first 
time  he  saw  a  wonderful  sight.  Hundreds  of  men, 
women,  and  children  were  engaged  in  building  up,  even 
as  the  Israelites  had  done  of  old  time,  the  bulwarks  of 
their  Zion.  The  men  had  their  guns  and  swords  close  at 
hand  as  they  worked.  Many  of  them  wielded  the  trowel 
or  mixed  the  mortar  with  pistols  in  their  belts  and  basket- 
hilted  swords  a-swing  by  their  sides.  Thus,  for  many 
years,  were  the  high  Cevennes  held  against  the  King. 

The  women  were  hastening  to  bring  lime  and  sand. 
The  very  children  fetched  water  in  pails,  or  as  though 
they  played  a  game,  carried  building  stones  on  handcarts. 
All  were  busy  at  the  great  work  under  the  direction  of 
experienced  masons.  Meanwhile,  a  little  erected  above 
the  rest,  an  old  man  stood  and  intoned  a  chapter  of  the 
Bible  in  a  loud  voice,  or  with  uplifted  hand  led  the  sol- 
emn psalm. 

6i 


62  FLOWER-O'-THE-CORN 

There  was  an  earnestness  and  purposeful  energy  about 
everyone,  that  struck  Maurice  Raith,  even  though  as  a 
miUtary  man  he  could  not  help  observing  the  mean  char- 
acter of  the  workmanship  when  compared  with  the 
square  solidity  of  the  bases  laid  by  the  Templars. 

Yet  for  all  that,  he  understood  that  these  Camisards 
were  men  building  by  faith,  setting  bulwarks  about  Zion, 
and  establishing  so  far  as  in  them  lay  the  temple  of  God 
and  of  righteousness.  Round  the  village  extended  a  sys- 
tem of  trenched  and  covered  ways,  most  curious  and  won- 
derful for  that  time,  under  cover  of  which  the  villagers 
had  long  defied  the  attacks  of  their  enemies. 

The  intrenchments,  as  Maurice  soon  observed,  were 
laid  out  with  the  eye  of  a  natural  soldier,  and  the  aide  of 
the  Duke  of  Marlborough  soon  found  himself  thinking 
with  more  respect  of  the  armed  peasants  who  could  thus 
keep  at  bay  the  soldiers  of  the  first  military  power  in 
Christendom. 

Presently,  however,  being  a  young  man,  Maurice 
Raith  thought  of  other  things  besides  the  military  order- 
ing and  intrenchment  of  the  village  of  La  Cavalerie.  The 
brightness  of  the  morning,  the  glow  of  noon,  the  purpling 
dusk  of  eve  are  presented  to  youth  for  other  purposes  than 
simply  as  so  much  time  in  which  to  prosecute  a  vocation. 
At  least,  so  Maurice  thought,  and  the  heart  within  him 
leaped  up  with  a  certain  rejoicing  to  know  that  he  was  so 
near  the  girl  who  of  all  others  had  power  to  move  him. 

For  Flower-o'-the-Corn  as  well  as  for  Maurice  Raith 
the  night  had  been  a  disturbed  one.  He  would  therefore 
leave  her  to  her  repose  till  the  evening.  Then  it  was  cer- 
tain that  she  would  come  out  to  breathe  the  high  air  of 
the  Causse,  with  the  clean  tart  grip  in  it.  When  that  oc- 
curred he  would  be  near  to  thank  her  for  having  saved 
his  life.  That  would  be  an  opportunity  not  to  be  lost. 
Moreover,  he  would  find  out  whether  or  no  she  had  rec- 
ognized him  in  his  disguise. 

Yes,  that  would  do.  In  the  meantirne — for  even  a 
young  lover  (or  what  is  even  more  one-idead  and  rest- 


MY    DAUGHTER    YVETTE       63 

less,  a  young  man  who  desires  to  be  a  lover)  must  dis- 
cover some  way  of  making  the  time  pass — he  would  take 
up  his  staff  in  his  hand  and  endeavor  to  obtain  a  general 
knowledge  of  the  system  of  defence  by  which  a  few  peas- 
ants had  kept  the  King  of  France  and  his  Marshals  at 
bay  for  so  many  years. 

Maurice  Raith  had  scarcely  set  foot  upon  the  wide 
closely-cropped  space  which  in  an  English  or  Scottish 
village  would  have  been  called  the  "  green,"  before  he 
was  hailed  from  afar  by  his  sometime  henchman,  Billy 
Marshall.  The  corporal  of  Cameronians  was  standing  by 
one  of  the  cart-wheels  with  a  carefully-packed  bundle  of 
clothes  on  the  ground  before  him.  A  dozen  men  were 
round  about  him.  He  carried  a  huge  thorn  stick  in  his 
hand,  and  was  making  valiant  passes  to  defend  his  posi- 
tion. 

"  Maister,"  he  cried,  as  soon  as  he  caught  sight  of 
Maurice,  "  thae  black-yards  willna  even  let  your  honor's 
breeks  alane — no,  though  I  hae  telled  them  till  I  am  tired 
that  they  are  a'  ye  hae  to  cover  your  nakedness,  and  Bet 
has  gi'en  them  the  office  in  their  ain  lingo!  IVad  ye 
then!  I  daiir  ye  to  come  ncr!  Haud  aff  there — unless  ye 
want  your  croon  crackit  by  this  best  o'  black-thorns  that 
ever  grew  on  the  banks  o'  Dee!  " 

A  man  with  the  blood  trickling  down  from  a  broken 
head  came  running  to  Maurice,  holding  a  cloth  to  his 
brow. 

"  This  mad  fellow  of  yours,"  he  said  in  rapid  and  im- 
perfect French,  "  will  not  give  up  your  clothes  to  be 
brushed.  I  had  the  orders  to  attend  to  your  outfit  from 
Jean  Cavalier  himself.  I  dare  not  face  the  general  un- 
less I  can  inform  him  that  I  have  obeyed  his  instructions. 
Yet  this  savage  has  broken  my  head  for  me — the  head  of 
an  old  soldier  of  His  Majesty's  Guards  and  a  good 
Protestant  of  forty  years'  repute." 

Maurice  laughed  a  little,  but  instantly  checking  him- 
self by  the  remembrance  of  his  self-chosen  state  as  Pierre 
the  Wagoner,  he  apologized  humbly,  hastening  to  patch 


64 


FLOWER-O'-THE-CORN 


Up  the  wound,  and  attempting  at  the  same  time  to  pacify 
the  belHgerent  Billy. 

But  this  was  somewhat  easier  said  than  done.  For  the 
deeps  of  Billy  Marshall  were  roused  by  what  he  consid- 
ered the  uncalled-for  and  shameless  plunder  of  his  mas- 
ter's goods  and  chattels.  He  felt  that  so  much  good  and 
warlike  gear  was  being  deliberately  thrown  away  on  a 
pack  of  psalm-singing  knaves.  And  he  refused  to  be  at 
amity  with  the  good  Protestant  and  ex-soldier  of  the 
King. 

"  Haud  oot  o'  my  road,"  he  cried,  waving  his  cudgel, 
"ye  lang-leggit,  splay-fittit,  wooden-jointed  atomy!  Wi' 
yae  skite  o'  my  rung  Fse  ding  ye  into  eternity.  An' 
whether  it  be  i'  the  bad  place  or  the  guid,  gosh — I'm 
nane  carin',  sae  be  that  ye  are  ta'en  oot  o'  my  sicht.  Leave 
my  maister's  claes  alane,  I  tell  ye,  or  I  will  tak'  the  law  o' 
ye — faith  I  will,  wi'  this  verra  rung!  " 

So  with  Bet  on  one  side,  and  Maurice  Raith  on  the 
other,  the  wrathful  Billy  was  finally  removed  to  the 
stables,  protesting  all  the  way  that  he  was  more  than  a 
match  for  all  the  "  cheatery  Frenchies  "  in  creation,  and 
that  so  long  as  he  remained  above  sod  no  frog-eater  or 
other  "  foreigneerin'  puggy  "  would  touch  so  much  as  a 
shoe-latchet  or  a  shirt-button  belonging  to  so  noble  a 
master. 

By  this  time  it  was  more  than  suspect  that  Master 
Billy  had  been  looking  upon  the  redness  of  the  wine 
which  remained  in  the  lower  part  of  my  Lord  Marlbor- 
ough's false-bottomed  casks. 

The  tall  and  somewhat  dignified  man  who,  after  the 
rescue  of  Maurice's  imiform,  had  drawn  upon  himself  the 
gypsy's  anger  by  continuing  to  follow  them  to  the  stable, 
now  came  forward  again,  as  if  to  ofifer  some  advice. 

"  I  would  advise  you  to  take  yourself  ofiF,"  said  Mau- 
rice; "my  man  is  somewhat  irritable  and  uncertain,  at 
best.  He  is  not  acquainted  with  the  language,  and  is  apt 
to  take  ofTence,  even  where  no  ofTence  is  meant.  I  am 
obliged  to  you,  but  his  wife  and  I  will  attend  to  the  horses 
ourselves." 


MY    DAUGHTER    YVETTE       65 

"  But,"  said  the  man,  speaking  in  a  hesitating  manner, 
and  in  a  tone  of  apology,  "  in  this  stable  are  also  my  own 
horses.  Who  will  see  to  them?  I  cannot  accept  that  fa- 
vor from  your  lordship." 

"  Whose  horses  are  they?  "  said  Maurice,  much  aston- 
ished, for  indeed,  he  had  not  yet  visited  the  stables  of  the 
Templarie  of  which  the  general  had  spoken. 

"  Will  your  Highness  do  me  the  honor  to  enter?  "  said 
the  man,  taking  his  hat  from  his  head.  "  I  am  the  hos- 
teller of  this  place,  and  I  have  the  commands  of  Jean 
Cavalier  himself  to  lodge  both  you  and  your  equipage." 

The  young  man  descended  certain  steps  of  stone,  a 
little  crumbling  and  hollowed  out  in  the  middle  with  use 
and  wont,  and  so  presently  found  himself  in  good  wide 
stables.  The  f^oor  was  of  hard-trodden  earth,  black  and 
glossy  hke  a  blacksmith's  apron,  not  at  all  Hke  the  lime- 
stone of  the  Gausses  or  the  floury  footing  which  it  natu- 
rally makes  when  crushed  into  dust.  There  was  plenty 
of  light,  however,  for  on  the  further  side  the  stables  gave 
upon  a  little  steep  ravine,  or  cleft  in  the  Causse — and 
withal  a  cheerful  sound  of  horses  moving  their  blinkers 
and  head-stalls  as  they  jerked  their  necks  upward  and 
whisked  about  the  more  easily  to  reach  their  feed-mangers 
or  the  hay  in  the  racks  above. 

On  pegs  here  and  there  hung  saddles  and  accoutre- 
ments of  war  all  ready  for  use,  for  the  Camisards  ob- 
tained many  of  their  most  celebrated  successes  simply  by 
the  speed  with  which  they  were  able  to  move  from  one 
place  to  another. 

Still  higher,  rows  of  iron  head-pieces  winked,  as  the 
level  shafts  of  sunlight  fell  through  the  narrow  triangular 
openings  in  the  wall  above  each  horse's  head.  At  the 
upper  end,  in  the  widest  and  best  stalls,  were  placed  in 
order  the  nine  horses  of  Pierre  the  Wagoner,  while  op- 
posite, in  a  kind  of  square  alcove,  empty,  swept  and  gar- 
nished with  good  clean  straw,  Billy  the  gypsy  and  his 
wife  Bet  had  made  their  encampment.  The  package  of 
clothes  which  had  been  the  cause  of  the  loud  disagree- 


66  FLOWER-O'-THE-CORN 

ment  without,  was  carefully  stowed  away  in  the  corner 
behind  Billy.  Maurice  recognized  the  bundle  as  the  one 
which  contained  his  best  staff  uniform,  which  he  had 
taken  with  him  at  the  last  moment,  with  some  vague  idea 
that  the  possession  of  it  might  tell  in  his  favor,  if  he 
should  be  apprehended  as  a  spy.  It  had,  however,  been 
enclosed  in  the  same  hiding-place  as  the  field-piece  sent 
to  the  Camisards  by  the  States-General  of  Holland,  so 
that  the  chances  were  small  indeed  that  it  would  have 
done  him  much  good  if  he  had  fallen  into  the  hands  of 
M.  the  Marechal  de  Montrevel. 

Maurice  saw  to  it  first  of  all  that  Billy  and  his  wife 
were  made  comfortable,  according  to  their  simple  and 
easy  standard.  It  was  the  custom  at  that  time  in  all  the 
inns  of  the  South  of  France  that  the  wagoners  should 
lodge  in  the  immediate  vicinity  of  their  horses,  or  even 
if  need  were  in  the  stalls  along  with  them.  But  at  the 
auberge  of  the  Camisard  village  of  La  Cavalerie,  the 
stables  were  on  an  unusually  bountiful  scale.  The  inn, 
standing  as  it  did  at  the  intersection  of  four  highways, 
had  been  before  the  outbreak  of  the  wars  of  religion  a 
notable  house  of  call  for  just  such  men  as  Pierre  the 
Wagoner.  Past  its  doors  had  defiled  all  the  rich  wines  of 
Herault,  St.  George,  and  Mont  Arnauld,  on  their  way  to 
Clermont  Ferrand  and  the  chilly  wineless  north. 

In  these  regions,  as  also  in  Spain,  only  travellers  of 
the  highest  consideration  ever  thought  of  ascending  to 
the  second  floor,  where  dwelt,  in  state  semi-baronial,  the 
innkeeper  and  his  family.  And  it  was,  though  Pierre 
knew  it  not,  a  proof  that  some  hint  of  his  quality  had  al- 
ready leaked  out,  that  he  received  this  invitation  from  his 
host  of  the  Bon  Chretien. 

In  time  Billy  Marshall  was  induced  to  lay  himself  down 
on  the  straw.  They  left  him  using  the  bundle  of  Mau- 
rice's regimentals  as  a  pillow,  and  even  in  sleep  denounc- 
ing fire  and  slaughter  against  anyone  who  should  attempt 
to  despoil  him  of  it. 

As  was  her  custom,  Bet  composed  herself  stoHdly  to 


MY    DAUGHTER    YVETTE       67 

watch  her  husband  through  the  hours  of  the  day  till  it 
should  be  his  lordly  pleasure  to  wake.  She  herself  had 
tasted  nothing  since  the  night  before.  Yet  she  never 
once  thought  of  preparing  food  for  herself  which  Billy 
would  be  unable  to  share.  So,  since  it  was  his  pleasure 
to  fall  asleep  in  the  daytime,  she  would  sit  and  watch  that 
no  harm  befell  him  in  these  strange  places,  perfectly 
assured  that  her  lord,  awaking  to  find  himself  in  a  strait 
betwixt  the  deep  sea  of  a  racking  headache  and  the  devil 
of  a  temper,  would  certainly  inflict  corporal  punishment 
upon  her  for  that  which  it  had  been  as  far  from  her  power 
to  prevent  as  it  had  been  out  of  her  wish  to  share.  A  true 
masculine  and  legitimate  conception  this  of  wifely  duty — 
ancient  as  the  stone  age,  and  which  shall  endure  fresh  and 
unbreathed  upon  unto  the  eve  of  the  Judgment  Day. 

At  the  invitation  of  Martin  Foy,  landlord  of  the  Bon 
Chretien,  Maurice  mounted  the  stairs,  which  ascended 
circularly  from  the  darkest  corner  of  the  stables. 

To  those  unacquainted  with  the  plan  of  such  southern 
houses,  it  might  have  been  remarkable  how  quickly  the 
remembrance  of  the  strange  entrance-hall  beneath  was 
blotted  out.  At  the  first  turn  of  the  staircase  the  am- 
moniacal  stable  smell  was  suddenly  left  behind.  At  the 
second,  there  in  front  of  the  ascending  guest  was  a 
fringed  mat  lying  on  the  little  landing.  At  the  third  Mau- 
rice found  himself  in  a  wide  hall,  lighted  from  the  front, 
with  an  outlook  upon  an  inner  courtyard  in  which  was  a 
Judas-tree  in  full  leaf,  with  seats  of  wicker  and  rustic 
branches  set  out.  Here  and  there  in  the  shade  stood 
small  round  tables,  pleasantly  retired,  all  evidencing  a 
degree  of  refinement  to  which  Maurice  had  been  a 
stranger  ever  since  he  left  those  inns  upon  the  post  roads 
of  England  which  were  justly  held  to  be  the  wonder  of 
the  world. 

But  notwithstanding,  and  considering  that  he  was  in 
one  of  the  most  remote  corners  of  France  and  had  just 
mounted  up  from  a  stable,  what  wonder  is  it  that  Maurice 
stopped  suddenly  aghast  when,  at  the  opening  of  a  door, 


68  FLOWER-O'-THE-CORN 

a  girl  stood  before  him,  one  hand  still  resting  on  the 
handle,  her  dark  and  graceful  head  turned  with  some  sur- 
prise in  the  direction  of  Martin  Foy  and  the  guest  he  was 
bringing  with  him. 

The  light  had  subdued  itself  to  a  certain  placable  green 
lustre  through  the  dense  foliage  of  the  Judas-tree,  from 
which  most  of  the  blossoms  had  long  vanished.  It 
touched  the  girl's  cheek  with  a  graceful  pallor.  She  wore 
a  dress  of  some  rough-surfaced  stuff,  excellently  made, 
which  fitted  every  curve  of  her  lithe  young  figure.  Mo- 
tionless as  she  was,  there  was  yet  about  her  a  suggestion 
of  something  excessively  active,  vigorous,  feline — not,  be 
it  understood,  the  slow  lazy  grace  of  the  cat,  but  rather 
the  felinity  of  the  tail-switching  leopard,  or  of  the  ounce 
lying  outstretched  upon  a  branch  ready  to  spring  upon 
its  prey. 

She  wore  a  single  pomegranate  flower,  red  as  blood, 
among  the  heaped  and  copious  masses  of  her  hair.  It 
gave  to  her  dark  beauty  a  certain  Spanish  suggestion, 
and  indeed  she  needed  no  other  ornament. 

"My  daughter  Yvette!"  said  the  landlord  of  Bon 
Chretien  for  all  introduction. 

The  girl  did  not  move  at  all.  Only  her  red  Hps  parted 
slightly,  and  she  threw  into  her  great  black  eyes  some- 
thing for  a  moment  personal  to  Maurice  Raith' — some- 
thing also  that  he  never  forgot. 

"  This  is  that  Monsieur  Pierre  of  whom  you  have 
heard,"  said  Martin  Foy;  "  he  for  whom  I  have  been  com- 
manded to  care  (to  the  everlasting  honor  of  this  house) 
by  Jean  Cavalier  himself,  during  his  sojourn  among  us. 
He  has  brought  us  both  arms  and  despatches  from  our 
allies  of  the  north,  and  for  this  I  beg  of  you,  Yvette,  my 
daughter,  to  do  him  all  honor." 

"  Indeed,"  entreated  Maurice,  who  foresaw  difficulties 
if  the  landlord  should  go  about  introducing  him  as  the 
accredited  ambassador  of  the  allies,  "  I  who  am  come 
among  you  am  but  the  servant  of  a  servant — one  Pierre 
of  Roche-a-Bayard  and  Hoo;  I  am  no  great  person — a 


MY    DAUGHTER    YVETTE       69 

poor  Flemish  carter  only,  and  deserve  but  your  plainest 
cheer  and  most  common  welcome." 

But  even  as  he  spoke  he  was  conscious  that  the  girl's 
eyes  were  upon  him.  A  smile  slowly  formed  itself  upon 
her  lips,  which  of  themselves  were  gracious,  knowl- 
edgeable, though  also  more  than  a  little  scornful. 

"  Let  me  see  your  hands,"  she  said,  suddenly. 

Maurice  Raith,  struck  with  quick  fear  that  he  would 
not  be  as  successful  in  preserving  his  incognito  as  he  had 
hoped,  obediently  stretched  out  his  hand.  She  did  not 
take  it  in  her  palm,  but  let  it  lie  lightly  on  the  back  of 
her  wrist.  She  even  raised  it  somewhat  nearer  to  her 
eyes,  which,  like  most  of  those  with  great  dark  pupils, 
were  a  little  short-sighted.  To  Maurice  it  seemed  that 
the  whole  operation  had  as  little  heart  in  it  as  when  a 
surgeon  examines  a  skull  or  other  interesting  preparation 
connected  with  his  art.  Then  with  her  other  hand  she 
turned  the  young  man's  fingers  over,  letting  the  tips  rest 
a  moment  on  the  soft  palm  of  her  hand,  not  caressingly, 
but  more  as  if  she  had  been  making  an  experiment. 

Then,  quite  suddenly,  she  lifted  her  eyes  to  his,  and 
gave  him  (as  it  were)  full-point-blank  volley.  They  were 
not  broken  bits  of  the  blue  of  heaven  forewandered  and 
lost  like  the  eyes  of  Flower-o'-the-Corn.  Rather  great, 
storm-dark,  ultra-passionate  they  seemed,  the  kind  of 
eyes  which  for  ever  swim  in  tears  that  are  never  shed — 
angry  tears  mostly,  yet  capable,  too,  upon  occasion,  of 
melting  into  singular,  unexpected  tenderness,  invincibly 
touching  because  so  rare.  Such  were  the  eyes  into  which, 
all  without  warning,  Maurice  found  himself  looking  at  the 
head  of  that  winding  staircase,  above  the  great  limestone- 
built  stables  in  which  the  horses  were  stamping  and  Billy 
Marshall  was  snoring  out  his  uneasy  slumbers  with  the 
faithful  Bet  watching  at  his  head. 

"  Ah,  Master  Pierre — Master  Pierre,  the  roulier.  the 
carrier,"  trilled  the  girl,  half  laughingly,  half  scornfully, 
"  good  Master  Wagoner — I  am  glad  to  make  your  ac- 
quaintance, excellent  Pierre  of  Hoo  and — where  else  did 
you  stable  your  honorable  horses  in  your  own  country?" 


70  FLOWER-O'-THE-CORN 

"  And  I  also  am  honored,"  said  Maurice,  speaking 
roughly;  "  it  is  a  pleasure  to  me  to  be  here.  The  wine  is 
better  and  the  girls  are  prettier  than  they  are  in  my  part 
of  the  country.  What  more  can  a  man  want?  And  that 
reminds  me — upon  my  word  I  had  forgot,  go  bring  me  a 
can  of  the  best,  lass.  Wine  seals  friendship  they  say — or 
because  you  are  so  pretty,  perhaps  you  would  prefer  an- 
other way?  " 

He  approached  the  girl  with  one  arm  outstretched,  his 
whiplash  caught  up  in  the  other,  in  the  traditional  atti- 
tude of  jolly  wagoners  when  they  encounter  the  prettiest 
serving-maid  of  an  inn.  But  Yvette  Foy  did  not  move 
an  inch,  nor  did  the  half-scornful  expression  of  her  eyes 
change  at  all.  Some  time  ago  her  father  had  disappeared 
down  one  of  the  many  passages  which  led  from  the  land- 
ing where  Maurice  Raith  had  met  his  match. 

"  I  will  see  that  your  room  is  prepared,"  he  had  said; 
"  Yvette  will  show  you  the  way  when  you  are  ready." 

The  two  young  people  were  thus  all  alone. 

Yet  in  spite  of  this  direct  assault,  Yvette  Foy  stood 
with  her  hand  still  on  the  latch  of  the  door,  through 
which  she  had  come  at  the  sound  of  feet  upon  the  long 
turnpike  stair. 

She  shook  her  head,  as  it  were,  more  in  sorrow  than  in 
anger. 

"  Ah,  no,"  she  said,  "  that  might  take  in  Frances,  the 
pastor's  daughter  of  Geneva,  but  not  Yvette  Foy.  And 
yet  you  do  it  not  that  ill,  good  Master  Wagoner,  who 
have  only  a  couple  of  blisters  on  your  rein  fingers  where 
the  skin  should  be  hard  as  horn.  And  these  pretty, 
dainty  hands  were  never  in  any  man's  service,  I  wot. 
Who  sends  a  useless  fisher  to  the  seas,  gets  back  neither 
fish  nor  salt,  says  the  proverb.  And  of  a  surety  your 
fingers  are  too  soft  for  good  service  either  by  sea  or 
land." 

She  laughed  aloud.  So  deep  and  rich  was  her  con- 
tralto, that  it  was  almost  like  the  low  tremolo  of  an  or- 
gan.    There  was  a   certain  palpitating  quiver  about   it, 


MY    DAUGHTER   YVETTE        71 

which  sympathetically  thrilled  the  listener  somewhere 
within  him,  somewhere  very  close  to  the  seat  of  his  being. 

"  Yet,  all  being  said  and  done,  you  do  your  part  not 
overwell,  considering  your  opportunities,"  she  said.  "  I, 
myself,  poor  Yvette  Foy,  that  never  had  the  chances  of 
an  orange-wench  at  a  theatre,  I  could  do  it  better.  See!  " 

And  she  took  the  long  carter's  whip  out  of  his  yield- 
ing hand,  set  his  broad  much-worn  hat  on  the  back  of 
her  small  shapely  head,  hiding  the  great  heaped  masses 
of  her  darkling  hair.  She  snatched  a  great  wagoner's 
coat,  called  a  honplandc,  and  threw  it  about  her  shoulders, 
buttoning  it  with  hasty  nervous  fingers. 

Then  she  threw  forward  her  right  foot,  and  brought  it 
down  with  a  slight  but  unmistakable  stamp  upon  the 
floor,  holding  the  whip  at  arm's  length  from  her,  the  butt 
defiantly  set  upon  the  ground  with  all  the  airs  of  a  devil 
of  a  fellow. 

"  Faith  of  a  dog,"  she  cried,  "  if  you  be  not  the  pret- 
tiest girl  I  have  seen  in  a  quintaine  of  Sundays — strike 
my  liver  and  lights  if  I  do  not  think  so!  There!  And 
there!  And  there!  "  she  cried,  kissing  loudly  on  the  back 
of  her  own  hand.  "  Let  that  serve  for  a  beginning,  and 
now  " — she  flung  down  a  broad  Spanish  dollar  with  the 
pillars  of  Hercules  very  evident  upon  it — "  there  is  what 
will  give  us  the  wherewithal  to  drink  to  our  better  ac- 
quaintance!   Take  it  up!    Take  it  up!  " 

She  dropped  the  cloak  on  the  floor,  gave  her  head  a 
light  careless  shake  so  that  the  hat  tumbled  ofT  of  its  own 
accord,  and  stood  bowing  before  him,  a  quiet  smile  upon 
her  lips  and  her  hand  upon  her  heart,  after  the  manner  of 
one  who  takes  as  a  thing  of  course  the  applause  of  a 
crowded  theatre. 

"  You  see,"  she  said,  while  Maurice  stood  before  her 
amazed,  "that  is  the  way  the  thing  ought  to  be  done! 
Your  performance  was  but  milk-and-water  to  mine — and 
not  a  great  deal  of  the  milk  even,  Master  Pierre  of  Roche- 
a-Bayard  and  Hoo!  " 

The  young  man   remained  mazed  and  abashed.     He 


72  FLOWER-O'-THE-CORN 

was  silent,  chiefly  because  he  did  not  know  how  much 
this  girl  might  know  nor  what  might  be  her  meaning  in 
thus  laying  bare  his  poor  artifices  and  concealments. 

She  bowed  again  more  mockingly  than  ever. 

"  Shall  I  have  the  honor  to  lead  your  honor  to  your 
honor's  chamber?  "  she  said. 

Then  Maurice  Raith — who,  though  on  two  occasions 
he  had  acted  the  ninny  where  girls  were  concerned,  was 
very  far  indeed  from  being  one — recovered  himself.  He 
would  not  be  made  a  fool  of  by  any  slim-jim  of  an  inn- 
keeper's daughter  on  the  Gausses  of  France. 

"  Madam,"  he  said,  with  a  superb  bow,  "  I  am  deeply 
indebted  for  the  instruction  you  have  afforded  me,  and 
I  shall  not  fail  to  profit  by  it — when  next  I  enter  an  inn, 
and  find  myself  served  by  a  pretty  waiting-woman!" 

He  bowed  to  the  girl  with  the  gravest  dignity.  Had 
she  been  Sarah  Jennings,  Duchess  of  Marlborough  her- 
self, he  could  not  have  used  more  form  and  ceremony. 
He  meant  to  convey  to  Yvette  Foy  of  the  Bon  Chretien 
in  La  Cavalerie  that  he  was  a  gentleman,  that  he  under- 
stood also  that  she  was  a  lady,  and  that  he  was  resolved 
to  treat  her  as  one.  But  the  finesse,  though  by  no  means 
thrown  away,  was  utterly  rejected  by  Mistress  Yvette. 

"  No,"  she  said,  pouting  her  lips  pettishly,  and  patting 
the  floor  discontentedly  with  her  little  slippered  foot, 
"  that  will  not  do.  You  cannot  put  me  off  with  the  pretty 
wholesome  greens  of  the  country.  Cabbages  and  leeks 
and  onions  are  excellent  growths.  But  I  have  been 
brought  up  with  them  and  have  kept  mine  eyes  open. 
You  are  a  gentleman  masquerading  as  a  wagoner.  I,  on 
the  other  hand,  am  a  little  village  girl^ " 

"  With  the  features  of  an  angel  and  the  manners  of  a 
great  lady!  "  said  Maurice  Raith  quickly,  bowing  com- 
placently in  his  turn. 

The  girl  laughed,  heartily  this  time,  and  not  so  con- 
temptuously as  before. 

"  Ah,  that  is  better,"  she  said,  "  and  in  that  word  you 
have  confessed.    All  is  right  between  us.     I  will  not  be- 


MY    DAUGHTER    YVETTE       73 

tray  you.  You  shall  be  Pierre  the  Wagoner  to  all  the 
world  an  you  will.    But  to  me " 

"  To  you?  " he  questioned,  seeing  that  she  paused. 

"  Anything  you  please,"  she  said,  with  strange  straight 
eyes  and  a  fixed  smile. 

There  fell  a  silence  between  them  which  endured 
longer  than  Maurice  Raith  felt  to  be  altogether  desirable. 
Yvette  Foy  appeared  to  wait  for  something  to  be  said  on 
his  side.  But  since  he  did  not  speak,  she  reverted  sud- 
denly to  her  former  scoffing  manner. 

"  My  father  will  be  waiting  for  us,"  she  said.  "  Per- 
mit me  to  conduct  his  honor  the  ambassador  to  his 
apartments!  " 


IX 

TO    LOVE    AND    TO    HATE 

THE  auberge  of  the  Bon  Chretien  in  the  village 
of  La  Cavalerie,  in  the  district  of  the  Cevennes 
held  by  the  rebel  Camisards,  had  on  a  time 
been  the  residence  of  the  ancient  Prior  of  the  Order  of 
the  Knights  Templar,  he  indeed  who  built  the  walls  and 
first  held  possession  of  the  town.  The  house  was  situated 
at  the  angle  of  the  little  Grande  Place  and  towered  above 
the  other  domiciles  of  the  vicinity,  even  thrusting  a  tow- 
ered and  crenellated  crown  higher  than  the  walls  them- 
selves— which  not  even  the  church  did,  but  crouched  low 
and  squat  as  if  protecting  itself  by  its  very  insignificance 
from  the  cannon-balls  of  the  Marechal  de  Montrevel. 

As  usual  the  innkeeper  was  the  richest  man  in  the  lit- 
tle commune,  though  not  for  the  usual  reason.  Martin 
Foy  had  not  originally  belonged  to  La  Cavalerie,  but, 
being  of  the  Camisard  opinion,  he  had  transported  him- 
self and  his  family  from  the  town  of  Millau  some  years 
before.  It  was  whispered  that  his  wife,  now  dead,  had 
not  been  equally  zealous  with  himself,  and  that  she  had 
lived  long  enough  to  indoctrinate  the  little  Yvette  with 
her  prejudices  in  favor  of  Catholicism.  But  as  to  that 
none  knew  certainly.  The  young  lady  had,  when  she 
chose,  both  a  pretty  and  a  close-shut  mouth  of  her  own. 

Maurice's  room  in  the  Bon  Chretien  was  large,  and 
to  the  English  eye  somewhat  bare.  But  the  flower- 
wreathed  balcony,  with  its  outlook  upon  white  road  and 
gray  parapeted  wall,  made  up  for  all  else.  In  the  cham- 
ber they  found  Martin  Foy  with  his  own  hands  putting 
the  finishing  touches  to  the  arrangements. 

74 


TO    LOVE    AND    TO    HATE      j^ 

"  You  will  find  your  sheets  aired,"  he  said,  "  and  there 
is  a  bell  upon  the  table  which  you  will  be  good  enough 
to  ring  outside  the  door  if  you  are  in  need  of  anything." 

"  But,"  said  Maurice,  "  this  will  not  do.  I  am  but  a 
poor  wagoner  of  Flanders,  and  I  have  no  right  nor  de- 
sire to  occupy  the  best  room  in  the  house !  " 

"  Sir,"  said  Martin  Foy,  bowing  gravely,  "  permit  me 
— for  this  cause  left  I  the  best  paying  business  within  the 
walls  of  Millau !  For  this  cause  counted  I  all  but  dross 
that  I  might  win  Christ.  And  shall  I  not  give  the  best 
room  in  my  poor  house  to  the  man  who,  holding  not  his 
life  dear,  brought  the  cannon  from  the  States-General 
of  Holland  to  these  Poor  Folk  in  sore  travail  on  the 
mountain  tops?  " 

As  Martin  Foy  spoke  there  came  instinctively  a  kind 
of  chaunt  into  his  voice,  which  Maurice  had  learned  to 
recognize  as  the  sign-manual  of  the  Camisard  prophet 
or  high  preacher.  He  could  distinguish  the  rant  (as 
he  then  called  it)  even  vmder  the  polished  accents  of 
Jean  Cavalier  himself.  The  girl,  who  had  paused  at  the 
door  of  the  apartment,  stood  with  her  hands  behind  her 
back  and  an  inscrutable  expression  upon  her  face. 
Maurice  could  not  tell  whether  it  was  contempt  or 
merely  weariness.  At  all  events,  it  was  evident  that 
Yvette  Foy  was  not  a  sympathetic  partaker  in  these 
things.  She  stood  listening  to  her  father  with  a  kind  of 
pride  and  defiant  revolt,  expressed  more  in  the  turn  of 
her  head  and  the  backward  throw  of  her  shoulders  than  in 
the  expression  of  her  features. 

The  chamber  was  wide,  the  bed  being — as  the  custom 
is  in  these  southern  hostelries — retired  within  a  cur- 
tained recess ;  the  red-covered  sofa  and  centre-table, 
with  its  drooping  tapestry,  might  have  garnished  the 
reception-room  of  a  general  on  campaign. 

It  was  twelve  o'clock,  and  from  beneath  came  the 
sound  of  a  chaunted  psalm.  Martin  Foy  started,  and 
went  rapidly  toward  the  door. 

"  It  is  the  hour  of  prayer,"  he  said ;  "  God  forgive  me 


76 


FLOWER-O'-THE-CORN 


— I  had  forgotten.  Will  you  accompany  me,  and  hear 
the  new  preacher  from  Geneva  expound  The  Way  ?  No, 
you  are  wearied  and  would  repose.  Well,  on  a  future 
occasion  he  will  refresh  your  heart  with  such  expositions 
of  the  true  inwardness  of  Scripture  as  have  never  been 
yet  heard  upon  the  Cevennes.  I  leave  you  to  my  daugh- 
ter. Permit  her  to  find  you  the  wherewithal  to  sustain 
the  body,  while  I  go  elsewhere  to  seek  for  the  better  sus- 
tenance of  the  soul !  " 

Yvette  Foy  followed  her  father  with  her  eyes  as  he 
went  out  through  the  door.  She  did  not  smile.  Rather 
there  was  an  exceeding  bitterness  in  her  wide-open  dark 
eyes.  ''  Let  us  go  out  into  the  clean  wholesome  air," 
she  said,  "  the  caterwauling  down  there  will  soon  be 
over.  Or,  rather,  the  animals  will  have  shut  themselves 
up  in  their  cage." 

Maurice  followed  her  out  on  the  balcony.  In  spite  of 
her  bitter  speech,  there  was  something  intensely  attrac- 
tive about  this  girl.  She  seemed  created  for  allurement. 
She  walked  like  some  Aholah  or  Aholibah,  scarlet-lipped, 
lithe-Hmbed,  certain  of  her  attractive  power,  a  woman 
against  whom  the  prophets  of  Israel  might  have  ful- 
minated as  against  the  idolatry  of  strange  gods.  Even 
more  she  resembled  Salome,  the  daughter  of  Herodius, 
as  flushed  with  triumph  she  went  out  from  dancing  be- 
fore the  king.  It  was  a  thing  wondrous  to  behold,  this 
innkeeper's  daughter  in  the  little  Camisard  village  high 
on  the  limestone  Gausses.  Give  her  but  silk  for  serge, 
red  heels  for  home-cobbled  shoes, and  there  had  not  been 
a  prouder  or  a  fairer  court  lady  under  the  raying  splen- 
dor of  the  CEil-de-Bociif. 

The  balcony  upon  which  Maurice  and  Yvette  Foy 
emerged  was  not  proper  to  his  room  alone.  It  went 
all  about  the  house — except,  that  is,  on  the  side  which 
overlooked  the  street.  Yvette  led  the  way  to  the  corner 
where  they  were  most  remote  from  observation,  and 
pointing  the  young  man  to  a  seat,  leaned  her  elbows 
negligently  on  the  iron  railing,  her  chin  on  her  clasped 


TO    LOVE    AND    TO    HATE      jj 

hands.  She  watched  him  intently  as  he  sat  down  at  her 
bidding. 

The  question  which  troubled  Maurice  was  this. 
"  Where  gat  this  girl  so  much  refinement,  so  much  of 
the  air  of  a  Court,  so  much  of  what  can  only  be  learnt 
in  the  society  of  men  and  women  of  the  world?  Not, 
certainly,  in  a  little  village,  set  close  up  under  the  stars 
and  in  the  sole  fellowship  of  religious  fanatics  ?  " 

She  looked  into  his  eyes  a  long  while  steadily,  and, 
in  spite  of  himself,  he  felt  his  soul  being  drawn  from  him. 
For  so  it  is  when  eyes  such  as  those  of  Yvette  Foy  have 
that  in  them  which  needeth  not  speech. 

"  So,"  she  said,  slowly,  without  withdrawing  her  eyes 
from  his  face  or  allowing  the  spell  to  be  broken,  "  have 
you  come  so  far  for  so  Httle  ?  " 

"  For  me,  I  do  not  know  what  you  mean,"  he  said, 
uneasily. 

But  all  the  same  he  did  not  look  at  her.  And  Yvette 
Foy,  the  innkeeper's  daughter,  laughed  a  low  resonant 
laugh,  like  the  gurgling  of  water  underground. 

"  No,"  she  said,  "  it  is  not  hid  from  me  as  you  think. 
It  cannot  be  hid.  For  I  am  not  as  one  of  the  foolish 
women.  I  am  no  ostrich  with  her  head  in  a  bag.  I  see 
the  thing  that  I  see !  And  that  which  has  brought  you 
here  is  not,  as  they  think,  to  bring  these  people  a  few 
guns,  a  little  powder,  and  the  greetings  of  their  dear 
friends  and  noble  alHes — who,  unless  it  suited  them, 
would  not  stretch  out  so  much  as  one  little  finger  to 
help,  if  all  the  Camisards  were  dying  of  hunger  and  tor- 
ture. This  is  not  hid  from  a  man  like  you — no,  nor  yet, 
pray  do  me  the  honor  to  believe,  from  a  woman  like  me. 
Oh,  I  have  no  patience  with  such  folly !  A  gun  or  two 
and  a  little  powder — a  few  papers  and  gew-gaws !  A 
decoration,  mayhap,  for  our  friend  Cavalier,  and,  lo! 
the  poor  silly  fools  are  all  agog  with  the  hope  that  next 
week  Marlborough  and  the  Prince  Eugene  will  be  camp- 
ing out  on  the  ridge  yonder,  and  King  Louis  and  all 
the  Marshals  of  France  sleeping  in  their  deep  graves  I 


78 


FLOWER-O'-THE-CORN 


I  wonder,  sir,  that  you  can  lend  yourself  for  a  moment 
to  such  deceit !  No,  and  you  would  not  but  that  you 
come  here — for  what?  I  will  tell  you  for  what — to  fol- 
low that  pale  pink-and-white  daffadowndilly  girl,  the 
daughter  of  the  Genevan  pastor.  Bah !  I  know  you 
men.  I  could  break  her  across  my  knee.  She  has  no 
heart ;  she  is  an  icicle,  a  frozen  rush  from  the  water 
edge.  She  knows  neither  what  it  is  to  love  nor  what  it 
is  to  hate  !  " 

She  paused  a  moment.  Her  eyes  had  grown  black  as 
night — blacker,  indeed,  than  blackest  midnight.  The 
great  pupils  seemed  to  overflow  the  iris  circles,  so  that 
there  was  no  white  left  at  all.  She  breathed  so  heavily 
that  her  bosom  heaved,  not  tumultuously.  but  slowly 
and  regularly,  yet  with  a  laboring  cadence  which  affected 
the  young  man  deeply. 

"  And  I  know  both,"  she  added,  suddenly ;  her  voice 
was  hardly  louder  than  a  whisper,  yet  far-reaching  like 
an  echo  in  a  great  cathedral. 

She  rose  up  suddenly  and  fronted  Maurice,  who  had 
hitherto  stood  entirely  silent.  He  had  never  met  any- 
one in  the  least  like  this  girl  before,  and  for  the  moment 
he  knew  not  what  to  answer.  At  first,  as  was  natural, 
he  had  thought  that  she  was  no  more  than  a  light-headed 
maid,  willing  to  be  made  merry  with  by  any  well-looking 
man  who  should  come  her  way.  But  already  he  saw 
how  greatly  he  had  been  mistaken. 

"  Yes,  I  know  both — to  love  and  to  hate,"  she  re- 
peated, and  as  she  spoke  she  slowly  approached  Maurice 
where  he  stood.  All  about  the  terrace  the  creepers 
were  red  and  purple.  The  pair  were  almost  wholly  hid- 
den behind  them,  and  it  is  not  likely  that  Yvette  Foy 
would  have  cared  greatly  in  any  case.  Obviously  some 
fierce  excitement  had  taken  hold  upon  the  girl.  Her 
hands  worked  convulsively,  almost,  as  it  seemed,  rhyth- 
mically with  the  rise  and  fall  of  her  laboring  bosom. 

"  Listen !  "  she  said,  in  the  same  low  thrilling  voice. 
"  I    have   not    spoken   to   a   man — at  least,  not  in  this 


TO    LOVE    AND    TO    HATE      79 

barred  prison-house,  for  five  months.  What  are  these 
yammerers  to  me?  God  cursed  me  with  a  soul  that 
would  not  be  contented  with  hymns  and  chapters  re- 
peated parrot-like,  or  the  grunting  over  of  so  many 
prayers  a-day.  Was  I  to  blame  for  that?  Did  I  weigh 
myself  in  scales  or  construct  my  own  body  and  soul? 
Therefore  He  will  be  merciful.  For  I  love  my  father, 
and  I  have  none  other  to  cleave  to — none  of  the  same 
simple  honesty,  that  is.  Faithfully  I  have  followed  his 
fortunes.  But  at  what  a  cost !  Here  for  me  is  only 
deadness.  The  white  bones  of  desolation  rattle !  Do 
you  not  hear  them,  too?  You — you!"  she  seized  him 
with  quick  vivid  hands  whose  clasps  left  nervous  im- 
pressions upon  his  wrists,  "  you  who  come  from  camps 
and  courts  and  the  society  of  the  living.  You  know 
these  are  not  my  equals.  These  are  no  companions  for 
me.  The  horses  in  the  stable  are  better  company-.  They 
do  not  prate.  They  do  not  prophesy.  They  do  not 
deafen  my  ears  with  texts  misquoted,  misunderstood, 
and  misapplied !  " 

"  But,"  began  Maurice,  slowly,  "is  it  not  possible  after 
all— that " 

He  could  not  follow  the  lightning  moods  of  this  girl. 
Her  flashing  torrent  of  words,  like  some  of  her  Caus- 
senard  torrents  in  spate-time,  carried  all  before  it. 

She  would  not  allow  him  to  continue. 

"  I  know — I  know,"  she  cried,  almost  fiercely,  "  you 
would  say  that  these  men  and — their  women — are  better 
than  I !  Granted !  You  are  right.  Infinitely  better, 
higher,  purer.  But  the  Being  they  call  God  made  me 
as  I  am.  I  did  not  make  myself.  I  did  not  so  arrange 
the  keyboard  of  my  soul  that  these  people  could  play 
nothing  but  discords  upon  it.  I  might  have  been  like 
your  China-of-Dresden  maid  down  there,  and  seen  good 
in  all  things.  Only  I  am  not.  It  was  not  so  ordained. 
My  father  sent  me  to  Paris  to  be  educated — finished. 
(Here  she  laughed  and  spread  her  hands  abroad.)  That 
was  when  he  was  rich.     The  school  was  a  kind  of  Prot- 


8o  FLOWER-O'-THE-CORN 

estant  convent  without  the  dresses  and  without  the 
masses  ;  by  so  much  the  duller  therefore  !  But  there  was 
another  maid  in  that  prison-house — her  name,  Eugenie 
la  Gracieuse.  Her  father  is  now  in  the  Marechal  de 
Montrevel's  army.  And  so  long  as  she  remained,  she 
and  I  found  a  way  to  evade  most  of  the  restrictions  of 
the  place." 

She  paused  to  let  memory  run  over  the  leaves  of  the 
past. 

"  I  was  there  four  happy  years.  I  saw  the  great  world. 
I  heard  men  speak — men  who  were  men — men  like  you. 
And  at  the  end  of  it,  I  came  back — to  this — to  this !  " 

And  with  a  great  sweep  of  disdain  she  enclosed  with 
her  arm  the  circle  of  little  high-roofed  houses  that  con- 
stituted the  fortified  village  of  La  Cavalerie.  So  might 
Zenobia  the  queen  have  looked  in  the  days  of  her  cap- 
tivity upon  the  villas  of  Tibur  and  the  white  flying  leaps 
of  the  Anio. 

She  looked  wondrously  lovely  to  Maurice,  this  girl — 
vivid,  pitiful,  of  an  astonishing  and  most  magnetic 
beauty,  flamboyant  in  all  the  bravery  of  youth  and  sex, 
evident  as  a  poppy  in  a  cornfield — no  Bluet,  no  simple 
flower,  this — but  with  that  of  dangerous  in  her  eyes 
which  is  so  infinitely  attractive  to  an  adventurous  young 
man  like  Maurice  Raith. 

Even  as  she  looked,  something  seemed  suddenly  to 
melt  in  the  young  man's  heart.  It  appeared  to  him  that 
he  had  been  sent  on  a  special  mission  from  the  great 
world  to  comfort  this  forlorn  girl — educated,  allowed  to 
taste  the  pleasures  of  life,  and  then  torn  from  them  to 
be  plunged  into  a  solitude.  Yes,  he,  Maurice  Raith, 
had  obviously  been  raised  up  for  that  purpose.  Also 
her  eyes  were  certainly  wonderful — that  olive  skin,  at 
once  clear  and  mat,  without  polish  or  surface  or  flush  of 
color,  save  only  the  lips  of  cardinal  red  laid  like  leaves  of 
autumnal  scarlet  upon  the  ivory  of  her  face.  Above, 
her  heaped  hair  in  dark  loose  masses — beneath,  eyes 
deep  and  lustrous !     Yes,  after  all,  why  should  he  not  ? 


TO    LOVE    AND    TO    HATE      8i 

Some  missions  carry  their  own  particular  zeal  along  with 
them. 

She  was  standing  facing  him  and  very  near.  There 
were  traces  of  recent  tears  in  her  eyes.  She  knew  or 
divined  some  part  of  his  story,  why  should  he  not. tell 
her  the  rest,  and  achieve  at  least  one  confidant  in  this 
place  of  stern  religionaries  ?  Maurice  Raith,  acted  upon 
by  the  glamour  of  those  dark  eyes  which  looked  so  mov- 
ingly into  his,  could  think  of  no  reason  against  it. 

He  made  one  step  toward  her.  Yvette  Foy  started 
and  a  flush  of  something  like  triumph  momentarily  red- 
dened her  cheek.  The  moist  suffusion  of  her  eyes 
brimmed  over.  A  tear  overwelled,  globed  itself,  was 
disengaged,  and  ran  slowly  down  her  cheek.  Maurice's 
right  arm  was  about  her.  He  had  a  kerchief  in  his  left 
hand.  He  knew  not  from  whence  he  had  obtained  it. 
But  he  was  wiping  away  that  slowly  trickling  drop.  Two 
great  eyes,  moist  and  luminous,  were  very  near.  They 
seemed  wells  of  light  now,  though  in  themselves  so  dark. 
The  face  was  very  near.  He  seemed  to  grow  dizzy  in 
a  mist  of  perfumed  breath.  The  carnation  lips  were 
nearer  still.  The  sight  and  thrill  of  them  seemed  to 
swallow  up  all  else. 

When  suddenly  beneath  these  two,  standing  thus,  rose 
the  singing  note  of  a  marvellous  voice.  Maurice  let 
the  handkerchief  drop.  He  started  back.  Yvette  Foy, 
left  unsupported,  staggered  and  would  have  fallen,  had 
it  not  been  for  the  iron  of  the  balcony  which  she  clasped 
with  both  hands.  Her  lips  grew  ashen  pale  with  dis- 
appointment far  beyond  anger.  The  arrow  had  fallen 
aside  even  while  it  stood  quivering  in  the  white. 

From  the  balcony  Maurice  Raith  looked  down.  It 
was  a  child's  funeral — a  mere  babe  whose  life-breath  had 
hardly  been  drawn,  for  whom  there  had  been  no  hold  on 
life,  no  pain,  no  merit,  no  joy,  no  sin — a  God's  child,  its 
coming  a  mystery,  its  taking  wing  scarce  a  grief. 

First  in  the  procession  came  the  old  minister,  the  late 
chaplain  of  Ardmillan's  regiment,  in  his  bands  and 
Genevan  gown,  the  Book  open  in  his  hand. 


82  FLOWER-O'-THE-CORN 

Then  all  clad  in  white,  fair  and  tall  like  an  angel,  Flow- 
er-o'-the-Corn  followed,  carrying  (as  was  the  Camisard 
custom)  the  babe  in  her  arms,  dead,  sinless,  also  clad  in 
white.  It  was  her  voice  which  Maurice  had  heard  lead- 
ing the  burial  psalm.  He  was  too  far  away  to  hear  the 
words  of  the  French  psalter,  but  he  well  remembered  the 
tune.  It  was  that  which  had  always  accompanied  the 
ancient  Scottish  words  of  the  hundred  and  twenty-first 
Psalm,  the  psalm  of  assured  peace  and  purity.  And 
they  rose  to  his  heart,  wellnigh  to  his  lips,  as  he  listened 
to  the  clear  voice  of  Frances  Wellwood,  whom  he  had 
called  Flower-o'-the-Corn : 

/  to  the  hills  will  lift  mine  eyes — 
From  whence  doth  come  mine  aid? 

My  safety  cometh  from  the  Lord 
Who  heaven  and  earth  hath  made. 

Thy  foot  He'll  not  let  slide,  nor  will 

He  slumber  that  thee  keeps. 
Behold,  He  that  keeps  Israel, 

He  slumbers  not  nor  sleeps. 

Maurice  stood  listening  to  the  rise  and  fall  of  the  mel- 
ody. The  singer  went  by  close  underneath  him.  The 
tall  old  pastor,  the  slender  white-robed  girl,  the  little 
shrouded  burden  in  her  arms,  passed  rapidly  across  the 
square  out  of  sight.  The  mourners  followed  the  father 
who  looked  down  with  set  teeth,  and  the  mother  bent 
in  grief,  her  face  in  her  hands.  After  these  came 
plain  folk  in  twos  and  threes.  Maurice  Hfted  himself 
up  with  a  certain  heave  of  relief.  Many  things,  the 
imaginations  of  the  heart  of  a  man,  which  ran  like  a  mill- 
race  before,  had  fallen  suddenly  still  and  joyless. 

He  turned  on  his  heel  and  went  out  without  once 
looking  at  Yvette  Foy. 


X 

A   WOMAN'S   WITS 

PROPERLY  speaking,  Maurice  Raith  had  as  yet 
no  soul.  Soul  is  like  character,  a  product,  or,  in 
the  words  of  the  Westminster  Catechism,  it  is  a 
work  and  not  an  act.  It  is  not  like  life — an  emanation. 
It  is  not  a  creation,  it  is  a  growth.  And  more  than  that, 
a  man's  soul  is  self-made.  As  the  man  thinks  in  his 
heart,  so  is  he. 

Already  in  childhood  the  foundations  are  laid.  The 
site  is  chosen — moody  or  cheerful,  inlooking  or  out- 
looking,  morose  or  heartsome — the  edifice  fronting  one 
way  or  the  other,  toward  the  sun  or  from  it.  Brick  by 
brick  it  goes  up,  story  by  story,  floor  by  floor,  amid 
clangor  and  clamor,  like  that  tall  tower  which  once  on 
a  time  overspied  the  plains  of  Shinar.  How  strong  and 
sure  it  looks  at  twenty-one !  How  massive  and  impreg- 
nable at  thirty !  Yet  who  can  tell  ?  All  depends  on 
whether  or  no  it  is  built  within  tide-mark.  Are  the 
foundations,  after  all,  on  the  sand?     Who  shall  say? 

For  one  day  the  high  tide  will  come,  a  sudden,  far-ex- 
tending sweep,  a  recurving  of  the  hollow  seas,  a  with- 
drawing as  at  Lisbon,  then  the  returning  arch  and  up- 
ward rush. 

The  soul  of  Maurice  Raith  was  to  be  early  tried.  His 
fates  were  kind.  Even  if  it  should  fall,  there  was  time 
for  him  to  set  about  laying  again  the  foundations  and 
building  the  tower  tier  upon  tier,  even  after  the  earth- 
quake wave  had  swept  all  away  to  one  destruction. 

Now  nothing  is  more  certain  than  that  Maurice  Raith 

83 


84 


FLOWER-O'-THE-CORN 


had  never  known  love.  How,  indeed,  should  he?  Love, 
among  other  things,  is  the  strife  between  that  which  is 
good  and  that  which  is  better.  A  man  has  many  choices 
of  happiness.  He  may  choose  the  best  batter  in  his 
feeding-trough.  He  may  arrange  for  the  best  prospect 
of  a  continuance  thereof,  for  himself  and  his  progeny. 
This  is,  all  and  whole,  the  philosophy  of  the  Swine- 
trough,  as  it  has  been  laid  down  once  for  all  by  the  cele- 
brated Sauerteig.  And  very  good  it  is.  A  great  states- 
man once  declared  that  a  man  is  never  more  harmlessly 
employed  than  when  engaged  in  making  money. 

But  there  are  other  things  which  strike  some  men  as 
worthier.  There  is  a  point,  and  God  send  that  a  man 
find  it  early  in  his  career,  when  the  Swinetrough  is 
nothing  to  him,  and  the  best  Branmash  nothing,  when 
the  Past  and  the  Present  and  the  Future  are  nothing, 
when  Ancestry  and  Posterity  are  the  same  thing,  so  that 
a  man  may  obtain  the  one  Fit  Companionship,  drink 
from  the  one  Delectable  Cup,  possess  the  one  thing  all 
precious  and  desirable. 

This  is  the  high  mystery  of  the  Eden  choice,  accord- 
ing to  which  the  promise  is  still  to  Adam  and  to  his  seed 
after  him.  This  is  the  eternal  sweet  in  the  cup  of  the 
Eden  bitterness.  In  the  sweat  of  his  brow  still  shall  the 
man  do  his  day's  darg.  In  wailing  and  infinite  bitter- 
ness shall  the  woman  bring  forth.  So  it  is  written  and 
so  it  must  be.  But  this  is  the  Divine  makeweight  flung 
by  the  Creator  into  the  Counter-scale.  Sweet  shall  ever 
be  the  honorable  Mating  of  Two — the  making  of  Man 
and  Woman  One.  Sweet,  sweet,  so  it  last,  as  the  wise 
word  saith,  till  death  them  do  part. 

But  in  his  present  mood  this  has  little  to  do  with  Mau- 
rice Raith. 

Yvette  Foy  watched  Maurice  leave  the  terrace  where 
they  had  stood  so  close  together  beneath  the  blossom- 
ing purple  creepers  with  a  smile  on  her  face  that  was  by 
no  means  affected.  All  was  not  lost  because  the  first 
coup    had    somewhat    miscarried.     She    had,    however, 


A    WOMAN'S    WITS  85 

sufficient  knowledge  of  men  to  make  no  further  move 
that  night. 

It  is  true  that  the  smile  on  her  face  became  a  bitter  one. 
And  as  she  betook  herself  to  her  needlework  and  her 
book,  the  twin  scarlet  lips  were  compressed  more  tightly 
than  usual,  and  there  was  a  certain  hard  and  fixed  look 
about  the  great  dark  eyes. 

"  A  minute  before  I  did  not  care  about  him  at  all," 
she  murmured  to  herself,  "  and  I  do  not  now.  I  have 
other  things  to  live  for.  But,  of  all  people  in  the  world 
she  shall  not  take  him  from  me !  " 

Round  a  street-corner  came  the  far-heard  chaunt  of 
the  child-mourners,  the  clear  voice  still  leading  it,  a 
heavenly  instrument  such  as  angels  might  blow  upon. 

Yvette  shrugged  her  shoulders  disdainfully. 

"  She  does  it  for  efifect,"  she  murmured ;  "  the  days 
have  been  when  I  have  done  as  much  myself  (she  smiled 
at  the  remembrance) ;  aye,  and  may  again,  if  that  is  the 
way  the  wind  blows.  If  she  chaunts  litanies  I  can  sing 
psalms.  She  has  made  a  captive  of  Jean  CavaHer,  so 
they  say,  the  new  prophet,  the  ex-baker's  boy  of  Geneva, 
who  came  among  us  to  deliver  Israel  from  the  hands  of 
the  Philistines  !     Well,  we  shall  see  !  " 

It  is  impossible  to  express  the  fierce  bitterness  with 
which  the  girl  spoke.  There  was  a  gleam  almost  of 
madness  in  her  eye,  the  revolt  of  a  keen  and  haughty 
spirit  against  surroundings  more  hateful  than  death. 

All  countries  produce  such,  the  widest  democracies  as 
well  as  the  strictest  theocracies.  For,  so  diverse  is  the 
spirit  of  man,  and  so  wayward  also,  that  it  is  enough  that 
the  word  should  go  forth,  "  Grow  thou  here  and  thus !  " 
for  some  to  yearn  and  strain  to  fill  some  other  place, 
and  grow  up  after  another  fashion. 

But,  perhaps,  in  all  times  rebels  have  been  most  com- 
mon in  the  sternest  and  strictest  theocracies.  Rome, 
Geneva,  and  the  Wartzburg  have  all  experienced  the 
difficulty — the  company  of  Jesus  and  the  company  of  the 
Jesuits  alike. 


86  FLOWER-O'-THE-CORN 

Yet,  to  do  her  justice,  it  was  only  when  such  an  one 
as  Maurice  Raith  came  in  her  way  that  Yvette  Foy  let 
herself  go.  She  had  a  philosophy  of  her  own  in  this  as 
in  all  things.  She  had  too  great  a  contempt  for  the 
Camisard  peasants  who  surrounded  her,  in  spite  of  the 
fact  that  their  midnight  marches  and  sudden  assaults  were 
making  all  Europe  ring  with  their  fame,  to  lift  so  much 
as  an  eyelash  upon  them.  Not  even  young  Jean  Cava- 
lier, handsome,  wise,  courtly,  polished,  had  so  far  moved 
her.  She  was  no  ordinary  country  maid,  this  daughter 
of  the  innkeeper  of  La  Cavalerie.  Indeed,  it  was  her 
chief  sin  that  she  held  herself  so  far  aloof  from  common 
clay — her  misfortune,  too. 

"  I  have  the  ill-luck  to  be  born  of  the  peasant's  party," 
she  said,  "  but  there  is  no  need  that  I  should  mix  with 
them.  I  will  pray  with  them,  watch  with  them,  endure 
long  sermons  with  them.  But  I  will  not  love  them,  talk 
with  them,  hold  comradeship  with  them.  They  shall 
have  my  company  just  as  little  as  my  duty  and  my 
father's  business  permit.  And  doubtless  in  good  time 
my  task  shall  be  ended.  If  not  by  means  of  this  young 
Englishman,  why,  by  another !  Not  for  nothing  was  I 
given  such  a  face  as  that  which  I  see  in  the  glass  yonder, 
on  the  day  when  masks  were  dealt  out  by  the  chief 
property-man." 

And  as  she  spoke  she  looked  at  a  little  mirror  of  green- 
ish glass,  opposite  to  which  she  always  sat  when  at  work, 
and  which  in  a  manner  of  speaking  constituted  her  prie- 
dicu  and  holy  of  holies.  Yvette  had  also  a  secret  store- 
house of  books  locked  safely  away  in  an  empty  escri- 
toire— books  which  had  been  sent  her  by  Eugenie  la 
Gracieuse,  her  friend  of  the  Parisian  school.  This  pri- 
vate library  included,  amongst  others,  the  Grand  Cyrus, 
Clelie,  and  the  latest  volumes  of  the  dictionary  of  Bayle 
— strange  books  to  be  found  on  the  shelf  of  a  Camisard 
girl  in  a  village  standing  upon  its  defences  in  the  wilds  of 
the  Cevennes. 

From  these  she  had  learned  the  language  of  Marly 


A    WOMAN'S    WITS  87 

and  Versailles.  Though  still  to  outward  appearance  a 
poor  girl,  her  mind  dwelt  constantly  with  dukes  and 
princes.  She  walked  the  narrow  corridors  of  the  Bon 
Chretien  as  if  they  had  been  the  haUs  of  the  Hotel  de 
Rambouillet  itself. 

It  would  have  been  hard  to  find  within  the  wide  limits 
of  France  a  maid  more  thoroughly  out  of  key  with  her 
life  and  surroundings  than  Yvette  Foy.  Add  to  this  the 
girl's  striking  and  fatal  beauty,  her  own  perfect  knowl- 
edge of  the  uses  to  which  that  beauty  might  be  put,  and 
an  early  resolve  to  make  a  way  for  herself  at  all  costs 
out  of  her  uncongenial  surroundings.  The  result  could 
not  fail  to  be  dangerous,  both  to  herself  and  to  the  peace 
of  mind  of  eligible  young  men  coming  within  her  sphere 
of  influence. 

To  do  her  justice,  however,  it  was  not  the  nature  of 
Yvette  Foy  to  sit  down  and  cry  over  the  spilling  of  milk. 
Why,  if  one  chance  were  gone,  should  she  sit  down  and 
weep  ?  On  the  contrary,  she  would  serenely  betake  her- 
self to  the  work  of  preparing  another. 

So  Yvette  Foy  sat  musing  upon  the  young  English- 
man who  had  left  her.  She  bore  him  no  malice  for  his 
sudden  departure — indeed,  less  than  she  had  done  a  pet 
squirrel  which  that  morning  had  escaped  from  his  cage. 

"  Well,  better  luck  next  time,"  she  had  said,  with  a 
shrug  of  the  shoulders.  "  You  can  hardly  expect  to  win 
every  trick  of  the  game,  Mistress  Yvette.  But  no  more 
will  the  Milk-and- Water  girl — that  is  one  comfort.'' 

For  so  she  named  Flower-o'-the-Corn  as  often  as  she 
thought  of  her. 

She  hummed  a  gay  careless  tune  learned  in  Paris. 

"  Shall  I  then  carry  a  hymn-book,  sing  psalms,  take 
short  steps  demurely,  abase  mine  eyes  upon  the  ground? 
Oh,  I  could  do  it.  Yes,  I  have  done  it  before  "  (so  she 
meditated),  "  but  if  I  judge  rightly,  these  things  are  not 
what  this  young  man  loves — a  firm  grip  of  the  hand,  a 
bold  meeting  eye,  not  too  forward,  but  as  a  man  to  a 
man.  These  will  take  him,  so  be  that  he  is  worth  the 
taking." 


88  FLOWER-O'-THE-CORN 

She  held  a  knitting-pin  in  her  mouth  part  of  the  time 
during  which  she  occupied  herself  with  this  analysis  of 
chances.  Her  eye  did  not  once  leave  her  work.  She 
might  have  been  a  demure  village  Martha  so  long  as  she 
let  her  eyelashes  lie  quiet  upon  her  cheek.  But  thoughts 
and  intents  quite  alien  to  La  Cavalerie  were  stirring  in 
her  heart. 

She  smiled  as,  looking  out  at  the  window,  she  saw 
Maurice  Raith  stride  away  across  the  little  open  square 
of  the  village,  and  round  the  newly-rebuilt  fortifications 
of  the  Knights  Templar.  He  walked  fast  as  if  he  would 
thus  disengage  himself  from  troublesome  thoughts. 

Yvette  laughed,  a  little  low  laugh  all  to  herself,  not 
unpleasant  to  hear,  it  was  so  full  of  good  humor  and 
even  mirthful  appreciation  of  the  circumstances. 

"  He  must  walk  fast  who  would  get  away  from  that 
infection !  "  she  murmured.  And  then,  before  dropping 
her  head  again  upon  her  seam,  she  glanced  at  the  dark 
piquant  beauty  of  her  face  in  the  little  green  mirror. 

"  Yes,"  she  said ;  "  I  am  sure  of  him.  He  is  too  much 
a  man  of  action  to  care  very  long  for  milk-and-water !  " 

Her  father  entered  at  this  moment,  sidling  uncertainly 
toward  a  chair  as  if  he  had  scarce  a  right  to  a  seat  in 
his  own  house. 

"  Well,  Martin  Foy,"  said  his  daughter,  without  rais- 
ing her  head  from  her  work,  or  taking  the  trouble  to  con- 
ceal the  novel  which  lay  open  upon  the  writing-table 
before  her ;  "  what  news  to-day  of  the  wondrous  baker's 
boy?  Hath  his  excellency  General  Jean  Cavalier  de- 
feated all  the  Marshals  of  France  and  heated  his  bread- 
oven  with  their  batons?" 

The  old  Camisard  shook  his  head  sombrely. 

"  Yvette,  Yvette,"  he  said,  in  a  voice  saddened  with 
much  singing  of  psalms,  and  a  manner  chastened  by 
habitual  self-repression  before  the  prophets  and  chiefs 
of  his  faith ;  "  when  will  you  learn  to  speak  reverently 
of  men  great  and  holy?  When  will  your  hard  heart  be 
touched?     Only  this  morning  Catinat  the  Prophet  de- 


A    WOMAN'S    WITS  89 

clared  that  the  time  would  not  be  long  before  Shiloh 
would  come  again  to  make  glad  his  folk " 

"Pshaw!"  cried  the  girl;  "can  you  not  see,  father, 
they  are  all  mouthing  fools !  I  am  sad  and  angry  to 
stand  by  and  see  you,  my  father,  giving  your  hard-earned 
substance  to  such  fanatics.  What  does  Catinat  know  of 
any  Shiloh?  All  he  cares  for  is  enough  good  meat  to 
eat  and  wine  to  drink  at  your  expense,  and  to  lie  in  the 
shade  and  prate  of  Shiloh !  " 

"  I  am  grieved  for  you,  my  daughter,"  said  her  father, 
yet  more  sadly ;  "  for  if  you  do  these  things  in  the  green 
tree,  what  will  you  do  in  the  dry?  Nay,  I  have  spoken 
concerning  you  to  Jean  Cavalier  himself " 

The  girl  looked  up  for  the  first  time,  the  blood  flushing 
pomegranate-red  under  her  dusky  skin,  her  white  teeth 
a  mere  line  between  her  indrawn  lips,  her  great  eyes 
bright  and  dry  with  anger. 

"  You  take  too  much  on  you,  Martin  Foy,"  she  said, 
sharply  and  bitterly.  "  Go — keep  your  prating  rogues 
from  making  havoc  of  your  cellar  and  eating  meat  they 
are  commanded  by  the  Lord  not  to  pay  for.  But  for  the 
future  do  not  mention  me  or  my  affairs  to  any  of  your 
canting  cronies.  I  have  nothing  to  do  with  them, 
mark  you — not  with  La  Fleche,  nor  with  Roland,  nor 
with  your  Prophet  Catinat ;  no,  nor  with  your  boasted 
Jean  CavaHer  himself,  though  I  grant  you  that,  in  spite 
of  his  baker's  oven,  he  is  a  bird  of  another  feather!  " 

As  the  words  left  the  girl's  lips  a  young  man  entered 
lightly,  dofifed  his  hat  with  a  low  bow  to  Yvette,  and 
stood  as  if  he  had  tidings  to  deliver. 

Martin  Foy  leaped  to  his  feet  with  a  Hght  in  his  dull 
sad  eyes.  The  pensive  resignation  with  which  he  had 
listened  to  his  daughter  was  gone  in  a  moment. 

"Cavalier!"  he  cried,  "Jean  CavaHer!  You  do  this 
house  an  honor!  My  daughter,  rise  and  bid  the  great- 
est of  our  prophets  and  leaders  welcome !  General  of 
the  army  of  the  Lord,  younger  Gideon  of  our  host,  my 
daughter  bids  you  welcome  !  " 


90  FLOWER-O'-THE-CORN 

The  girl  rose  with  a  haughty  and  contemptuous  gest- 
ure, her  eyes  still  flashing  angry  fire.  She  swept  the 
young  man  a  courtesy,  to  which  he  responded  with  an 
equal  austerity,  not  too  much  and  not  too  little — yet 
marking,  as  a  man  of  breeding  might  do,  his  recognition 
of  the  unfriendliness  of  his  reception,  and  his  intention 
not  in  any  way  to  presume. 

"  I  am  no  General,"  he  said,  in  a  voice  singularly  low 
and  pleasant,  "  and  you  named  me  rightly,  Martin  Foy, 
when  you  called  me  simply  Jean  Cavalier.  As  you 
know,  there  are  no  titles  among  us,  the  Brethren  of  the 
Way." 

The  girl  stood  still,  the  long  train  of  her  gown  circled 
proudly  about  her,  her  head  thrown  back,  regarding  him. 
But  Jean  Cavalier  bore  her  scrutiny  unabashed,  yet  with 
all  the  singular  sweet  modesty  natural  to  the  man. 

There  was  something  altogether  very  winning  about 
him.  It  was  difficult  indeed  to  reconcile  the  boyishness 
of  his  face,  the  crisp  curls  about  his  small,  well-formed 
head,  the  blush  that  came  and  went  upon  his  cheek,  and 
the  slight,  dark,  downy  moustache  on  his  lip,  with  the 
reputation  which  he  already  possessed  all  over  Europe  as 
a  veteran  soldier,  who  had  worsted  great  marshals,  past- 
masters  of  war,  and  who  had  compelled  the  Court  of 
Versailles  itself  to  alter  its  methods  of  dealing  with  the 
rebel  peasants  of  the  Cevennes. 

In  person  Jean  Cavalier  was  not  tall.  On  the  con- 
trary, he  was  only  slightly  above  the  middle  height,  but 
with  a  great  width  of  shoulders  and  a  body  singularly 
well  formed.  For  all  that  he  could  easily  surpass  all 
his  contemporaries  at  military  exercises  and  games  of 
skill.  While  still  a  baker's  apprentice  at  Geneva,  he  had 
a  revelation  of  how  one  day  he  would  be  led  by  the  Spirit 
back  to  his  native  Cevennes,  and  there  so  strengthen 
the  hands  of  his  fellows,  so  aid  and  establish  Israel,  that 
the  Folk  of  the  Way  should  be  made  strong  upon  the 
mountains  and  be  able  to  speak  with  their  enemies  in  the 
gate. 


A    WOMAN'S    WITS  91 

But  of  all  this  the  daughter  of  Martin  Foy  recked 
nothing. 

"  Has  it  been  a  good  season  for  visions  ?  "  said  Yvette 
Foy,  keeping  her  eyes  steadfastly  fixed  upon  the  young 
man  before  her. 

Jean  Cavalier  did  not  blush.  Neither  did  he  seem  put 
out  for  a  moment.  Steadily  he  gave  the  girl  back  eye- 
volley  for  eye-volley. 

"  The  coming  of  the  Vision  or  the  going  of  it,"  he 
answered,  with  dignity,  "  is  not  mine  to  hasten  or  delay. 
When  the  Lord  has  work  for  His  people  He  will  make 
bare  His  arm." 

The  girl  made  a  quick  little  gesture  of  infinite  con- 
tempt. 

"  Oh,  do  not  weary  me — I  know  the  jargon,"  she  said  ; 
"  the  trick  of  it  is  too  palpable.  For  a  comfortable  sal- 
ary I  could  set  up  for  a  prophetess  myself.  A  trance, 
a  revelation,  twenty  texts  taken  at  random " 

"  Girl,"  cried  Martin  Foy,  "  do  not  profane  the  word 
of  the  Lord  nor  the  words  of  them  that  speak  by  Him  !  " 

"  Aye  !  But  do  they  ?  "  said  the  girl  defiantly ;  *'  were 
there  not  lying  prophets  of  old  who  misled  the  people  ? 
Methinks  I  have  heard  of  them — shepherds  who  caused 
the  sheep  to  go  astray  upon  the  mountains " 

"  That  is  possible,  mademoiselle,"  said  Jean  Cavalier, 
with  the  most  perfect  courtesy ;  "  but  I  think  if  you  will 
consider  the  deeds  which  God  has  been  pleased  to  do 
by  me  since  He  brought  me  hither,  you  will  admit  that 
the  Spirit  of  the  Lord  hath  not  altogether  spoken  in 
vain !  " 

"  You  have  beaten  General  Argenton,  and  the  poor 
old  Brigadier  San  Privat,"  she  said,  bitterly,  "  and  what 
of  that  ?  Is  a  regiment  more  or  less  aught  to  the  master 
of  armies?  Shall  Louis  the  King  be  less  the  King  for 
a  score  of  such  victories?" 

"  Not  less,  but  more,"  said  Jean  Cavalier,  gently ; 
"  moreover,  it  has  been  revealed  to  me  that  one  day  I 
shall  stand  before  Louis  the  King  and  not  be  ashamed! 


92  FLOWER-O'-THE-CORN 

The  King  is  still  the  King,  and  we  hold  ourselves  his 
subjects  all  the  more  because  we  resist  the  persecutors 
who  have  blinded  his  eyes  and  led  him  astray !  " 

"  An  hour  or  two  ago,"  she  said,  "  I  saw  a  company 
of  those  '  loyal  subjects  '  dragging  a  cannon  into  the 
village.  Was  it,  perchance,  to  fire  salutes  in  honor  of 
his  majesty's  birthday?" 

Jean  Cavalier  smiled,  almost  the  sweet  smile  of  a  child. 

"  I  had  not  thought  that  his  majesty  had  so  whole- 
hearted an  advocate  within  these  walls,"  he  said,  kindly. 
"  Martin  Foy,  we  must  be  careful  before  whom  we  talk 
our  secrets !  " 

Then  he  turned  to  Yvette  Foy,  and  walking  straight 
up  to  her  he  laid  his  hand  upon  her  wrist.  There  was 
nothing  of  familiarity  in  the  action,  yet  the  girl  winced 
and  then  stood  stonily  still. 

"  Listen,"  he  said,  in  a  low,  soft,  even  tone,  charac- 
teristic of  him.  "  I  have  a  message  for  you  also.  Mis- 
tress Yvette  Foy.  We  of  the  folk  called  Camisards  are 
no  unfriends  to  the  King — only  to  the  priests  and  those 
who  take  the  name  of  the  King's  authority  in  vain.  We 
will  obey  him  save  in  the  matter  of  our  consciences — 
save  in  the  things  wherein  we  have  appealed  to  a  Higher 
Tribunal,  and,  as  it  were,  stand  before  Caesar !  Let  this 
remain  in  your  mind.  For  the  present  I  hold  no  further 
word  with  you  !  " 

He  removed  his  hand  from  the  girl's  wrist.  She  re- 
turned to  herself  with  a  kind  of  shudder,  but  before  she 
could  speak  the  young  man  had  bowed  as  formally  as 
before  and  betaken  him  down  the  stairs  of  the  inn  of  the 
Bon  Chretien. 

Yvette  stamped  her  foot  in  hot  anger. 

"  So  that  is  his  power,"  she  said  ;  "  and  he  would  make 
me  feel  it — mc — who  condemn  and  despise  all  his  prating 
crew.  Well,  wait — wait !  There  is  this  day  and 
another  day  after  this.  He  also  is  a  young  man,  and 
though  he  is  strong  in  his  will-magic,  I  will  break  his  will 
and  his  magic,  both  of  them  together.     He  shall  crawl 


A    WOMAN'S    WITS  93 

like  a  worm  on  the  ground  before  me  or  all  be  done." 
She  looked  in  the  mirror,  and  the  smile  that  the  hand- 
breadth  of  greenish  Venetian  glass  reflected  was  not 
wholly  pleasant  to  see.  "  I  also  have  a  magic  older  and 
simpler  than  he  dreams  of.  He  can  cast  his  glamour  on 
these  ignorant  peasants,  mud-stained  from  the  furrow. 
He  can  sway  the  listening  assembly,  I  have  heard  him — 
breath — breath  the  power  of  the  spoken  word — the  thrill 
of  personality  that  passes  out  from  a  man !  Others  do 
great  things  because  he  wills  it,  I  have  seen  it  and  I 
know.  But  just  because  the  power  goes  out  from  him, 
he  is  left  weak.  All  the  more  that  he  binds  thousands 
to  his  will,  he  shall  not  be  able  to  resist  mine.  For  / 
will  think  and  plot  and  wait !  One  day  he  shall  obey  me. 
The  other — the  Englishman — I  shall  have  him  also  on 
my  hands.  He  must  not  be  thrown  away  on  that  chit 
of  chits,  the  whey-skinned  daughter  of  their  chief  psalm- 
singer.  Him  I  will  play  daintily,  as  the  angle  is  thrown 
in  jest  to  a  full-fed  fish  in  a  carp  pond.  I  will  tickle  him 
from  the  wrist.  He  shall  be  daintied  and  dandled  to  his 
heart's  content.  But  Jean  Cavalier ! — ah !  Jean  Cavalier 
the  Prophet — I  will  teach  you  to  set  your  hand  on  the 
arm  of  Yvette  Foy.  You  I  will  take  with  the  strong 
hand !  Your  very  soul  shall  be  mine — mine — to  have 
and  to  hold — or  to  throw  away  from  me  like  a  rotten 
fruit  on  the  dust-heap  of  my  vanity." 

She  plucked  at  the  growing  greenery  of  the  balcony, 
where  she  had  sat  with  the  young  Englishman.  A  spray 
of  purple  creeper  came  away  in  her  hand.  She  shredded 
the  petals  one  from  the  other  and  dropped  them  over  the 
iron  bars. 

"  So — so  will  I  do  with  the  soul  of  Jean  Cavalier,  be- 
cause he  hath  tried  to  humble  me ;  according  to  the 
power  that  is  given  to  me,  I  will  cause  his  prophecies  to 
cease.  I  will  shut  his  soul  to  the  invisible.  I  will  make 
him  even  as  other  men — he,  who  calls  himself  the  leader 
of  many.  And  at  the  last  I  will  give  him  ashes  in  his 
mouth — even  apples  of  Sodom,  exceeding  bitter  fruit !  " 


94  FLOWER-O'-THE-CORN 

As  she  spoke  she  broke  into  a  trill  of  laughter,  that 
rang  through  the  mid-noon  like  the  clang  of  alarm-bells, 
far-heard  across  the  champaign. 

"  I  declare,"  she  said,  "  I  also  have  quite  caught  the 
twang.     I  am  preaching  without  knowing  it." 


And  outside,  upon  the  irregular  pavement  of  the  little 
street,  two  men  met  and  greeted  each  other.  Maurice 
Raith,  still  in  his  wagoner's  blouse,  uncovered  and  stood 
humbly  before  Jean  Cavalier,  who  nodded  slightly  in 
acknowledgment  of  the  salutation. 

"  When  shall  we  go  over  the  papers  together  ?  "  said 
one ;  "  there  is  the  rendezvous  near  Cette  to  arrange  for, 
and  the  time  is  short?" 

It  was  the  wagoner  who  spoke,  humbly  as  if  he  asked 
some  favor  of  quarters  or  victual. 

"  To-morrow  night,"  said  the  other,  looking  care- 
lessly into  the  distance ;  "  bring  your  servant  with  you 
to  my  rooms.  I  think  he  speaks  no  French.  We  shall 
arrange  all  then.  And  he  will  keep  the  door.  He  can 
be  trusted?" 

"  That  I  warrant !  "  said  Pierre  the  Wagoner,  grimly. 
"  God  pity  the  man  who  runs  up  against  Billy  with  a 
sword  in  his  hand  and  a  door  to  keep !  " 

And  above  them,  out  of  the  high  balcony  of  the  ancient 
Templar's  House  the  dark  eyes  of  Yvette  Foy  looked 
after  them. 

"  Men  are  such  self-important  ninnies,"  so  she  summed 
up  her  experiences.  "  Their  bubbles  are  blown  so  thin 
that  they  need  no  pricking!  They  burst  of  themselves. 
As  if  everyone  with  brains  did  not  know  that  these  two 
were  arranging  a  rendezvous !  It  will  be  at  his  Excel- 
lency General  Cavalier's  quarters,  doubtless.  They 
would  not  dare  to  come  here.  No  (she  laughed  aloud) 
not  herd  " 

She  stepped  back  quickly,  for  Jean  Cavalier,  as  if  drawn 


A    WOMAN'S    WITS  95 

by  the  power  of  her  eyes,  turned  suddenly  and  looked 
back  toward  the  window. 

From  the  safe  shelter  of  the  creeper-hidden  porch  she 
kissed  her  hand  toward  the  retreating  pair. 

"  An  rcvoir — my  pair  of  brave  conspirators !  "  she  said, 
smiling-  with  a  large  contempt.  "  '  An  I  be  not  of  you, 
I  shall  be  with  you  ere  long,'  as  the  sparrow-hawk  cried 
in  at  the  door  of  the  poultry  pen." 

And  Hke  a  modest  maiden  she  gathered  her  work  to- 
gether and  withdrew  to  her  chamber. 


XI 

THE  JUDAS-TREE   LETS   FALL   A   BLOSSOM 

DURING  these  days  at  La  Cavalerie,  Flower-o'- 
the-Corn  went  about  with  a  sweet  smiUng  gra- 
ciousness  which  won  all  hearts — all,  that  is,  or 
nearly  all. 

Her  father's  lodgings  were  (as  we  know)  in  one  of  the 
old  towers  that  overlooked  the  Templar  gates.  Opposite 
to  them,  in  the  corresponding  tower  which  completes  the 
other  wall,  lived  Jean  Cavalier,  alone,  as  a  prophet 
should. 

But  for  all  that  there  was  much  coming  and  going  be- 
tween the  two  towers  of  the  gateway.  For  Patrick  Well- 
wood,  though  making  no  profession  of  being  a  prophet, 
was  rapidly  obtaining  a  spiritual  influence  over  the 
Camisards  of  the  Gausses,  second  only  to  that  of  Jean 
Gavalier  himself. 

His  simple  faith,  his  trained  methods  of  studying  and 
expounding  the  Scripture,  his  clear  perception  of  the 
needs  of  a  simple  people  warring  for  religious  liberty, 
added  to  the  remembrance  of  the  days,  not  so  long  gone 
by,  when  his  own  folk  of  the  South  of  Scotland  (and  he 
himself)  had  been  hunted  like  the  partridge  upon  the 
mountains,  even  the  quaint  flavor  of  his  foreign  tongue, 
won  them  over  to  a  great  love  for  the  late  chaplain  of 
Ardmillan's  regiment.  Nor  did  his  glaring  squint  do  him 
any  harm.  It  was  taken  rather  as  a  sign  of  his  power  and 
abstraction  from  the  concerns  of  the  world,  and  repentant 
Gamisards,  cowering  in  some  dark  corner  from  the  whirl- 
wind of  denunciation  from  the  pulpit,  were  terror-stricken 
by  the  infallibility  with  which  the  wandering  right  orb 

96 


THE   JUDAS-TREE  97 

sought  them  out,  and  fixed  in  their  hearts  as  with  per- 
sonal applications  the  rebukings  of  the  preacher. 

Meanwhile,  Flower-o'-the-Corn  went  her  ways  from 
door  to  door,  not  as  a  duty,  but  because  she  genuinely 
loved  all  people  of  every  rank  and  was  interested  in  their 
affairs.  It  was  thus  that  she  had  entered  the  household  of 
one  Joseph  Moreau,  an  old  soldier  like  Foy  the  inn- 
keeper, and  a  former  companion  of  his  in  the  regiment 
of  grenadiers.  Like  Foy,  this  man  had  been  touched 
with  the  strong  sense  of  obedience  to  impulse,  contained 
in  the  teaching  of  the  Camisards.  But,  unlike  Foy,  he 
had  come  to  the  village  of  La  Cavalerie  to  marry,  and 
had  there  espoused  a  young  girl  still  in  her  "  teens."  The 
little  white-wrapped  figure  of  the  funeral  procession  was 
their  first  child,  born  but  a  day  or  two  before,  and  already 
gone  from  their  sight  as  if,  after  a  trial,  it  had  found  the 
great  world  somedeal  too  rough. 

Frances  Wellwood's  pity  for  the  forlorn  little  child- 
mother  showed  readily  in  her  eyes.  It  was  that,  more 
than  the  act  of  carrying  the  babe  to  the  tomb,  which 
bound  these  two  to  her.  Beauty  is  never  so  beautiful  as 
when  it  shows  itself  in  the  pitifulness  of  loving  acts,,  and 
Yvette  Foy,  with  all  her  cleverness,  made  a  mistake  when 
she  despised  her  innocent  rival. 

These  two  women  had  never  met  till  the  morning  after 
the  day  of  Maurice's  arrival  in  the  camp.  The  little  town 
of  La  Cavalerie  was  not  at  that  time  so  closely  shut  up 
as  to  prevent  a  daily  market  being  held  in  the  square. 
It  was  there  after  the  morning  service,  among  the  white- 
capped  venders  of  fowls  and  vegetables,  that  Yvette  Foy 
for  the  first  time  encountered  Frances  Wellwood  face  to 
face,  and  held  speech  with  her. 

It  was  not  often  that  Yvette  betook  herself  thither, 
either  to  kirk  or  market.  For  the  most  part  she  left  the 
provendering  of  the  Bon  Chretien  to  her  father  and  the 
kitchen  servants.  But  on  this  occasion  she  had  deigned 
to  accompany  her  father  to  an  early  service,  in  order,  as 
she  said,  to  hear  whether  this  new  preacher  from  Geneva 


98 


FLOWER-O'-THE-CORN 


had  more  to  say  for  himself  than  their  own  prophets,  who 
rambled  among  texts  of  Scripture  like  unbroken  colts  in 
a  field  of  clover. 

But  Yvette  Foy's  chief  desire  in  visiting  the  church  at 
an  hour  so  unusual  was  to  take  up  a  position  in  the 
vicinity  of  Flower-o'-the-Corn  and  study  her  rival  as  at- 
tentively as  might  be  without  drawing  attention  upon 
herself. 

This  she  managed  to  carry  out  without  difficulty. 

The  Camisard  church  of  La  Cavalerie  was  a  plain 
oblong  building,  dating  from  the  old  wars  of  religion  in 
the  middle  of  the  sixteenth  century.  There  was  no  re- 
serving of  places.  Each  worshipper  brought  his  own 
folding-chair,  or,  in  most  cases,  knelt  upon  the  cold  floor 
in  time  of  prayer,  and  stood  like  a  soldier  at  attention  dur- 
ing sermon.  A  few  carried  each  his  wife's  prayer-stool, 
but  this  was  accounted  a  badge  of  servitude. 

Certain  more  occasional  hearers,  like  Yvette  Foy,  had 
made  an  arrangement  with  the  wife  of  the  caretaker  to 
store  their  chairs  and  Bibles  for  them.  So,  upon  Yvette 
entering,  the  old  woman  hastened  toward  her  with  her 
folding-stool.  The  congregation  was  standing  at  the 
singmg  of  one  of  those  long  psalms  which  in  general 
were  sung  through  from  beginning  to  end  without  a  halt, 
the  rumble  of  the  bass  voices  of  the  men  mingling  with 
the  sweet  treble  of  the  women  in  a  minor  harmony  in- 
finitely plaintive  and  memorable. 

At  the  first  glance  Yvette  noticed  where  Flower-o'- 
the-Corn  had  placed  herself,  which,  as  usual,  was  imme- 
diately beneath  her  father.  For  the  old  man,  wrapt  in 
some  great  meditation  of  his  own,  occasionally  needed 
to  be  reminded  where  he  was  and  what  was  expected  of 
him.  On  more  than  one  occasion  he  had  given  out  his 
text,  and  then  standing  a  moment  to  collect  his  ideas, 
had  gradually  become  so  entranced  by  the  noble  thoughts 
which  the  words  of  Scripture  suggested  to  him,  that  he 
had  forthwith  shut  the  book  and  descended  the  pulpit 
stairs  without  giving  utterance  to  a  single  word. 


THE    JUDAS-TREE  99 

All  which,  among  a  people  so  superstitious  as  the 
Camisards,  added  greatly  to  his  reputation,  as  a  man  who 
had  dealings  directly  and  by  word  of  mouth  with  the 
Spirit  of  God. 

Patrick  Wellwood  was  standing  in  the  pulpit  when 
Yvette  entered.  He  had  been  educated  at  Geneva,  hav- 
ing chosen  that  seminary  in  preference  to  Leyden  or 
Groningen  because  of  its  greater  theologic  freedom. 
For  as  a  young  man  Patrick  Wellwood  had  not  belonged 
to  the  stricter  sect  of  the  keepers  of  the  Law.  Here  he 
had  learned  French  of  that  notable  fluency  and  vigor 
which  can  only  be  attained  in  youth.  Besides  which  he 
had  spent  by  far  the  greater  part  of  his  life  abroad,  and 
so  it  was  that  he  could  speak  to  the  Camisards  of  the 
Cevennes  in  their  own  language,  with  all  the  vigor  and 
point  with  which  he  addressed  the  Presbyterian  veterans 
of  Ardmillan's  regiment. 

Flower-o'-the-Corn's  eyes  were  fixed  upon  her  father. 
She  did  not  even  observe  that  Jean  Cavalier  had  placed 
himself  directly  at  right  angles  to  her,  side  by  side  with 
Roland  and  Catinat  in  the  place  which  had  come  to  be 
reserved  for  the  elders  and  prophets  of  the  Camisard  peo- 
ple. She  only  thought  of  the  Commander-in-Chief  of  the 
Camisard  forces  as  a  young  man  who  had  shown  himself 
willing  to  be  kind  and  helpful  to  her  father  upon  many 
occasions.  And  this  counted  for  much  with  Flower-o'- 
the-Corn.  So  much  so,  indeed,  that  she  gave  the  young 
man  a  grateful  nod  and  smile  when  he  returned  from  con- 
ducting the  old  man  to  the  pulpit,  which  he  did  with  a 
sweet  and  humble  respectfulness  that  (she  thought)  be- 
came him  no  little. 

It  chanced  that  Yvette  Foy  arrived  in  the  church 
just  in  time  to  intercept  the  glance,  and  to  watch  the 
blood  spring  hotly  responsive  to  the  young  soldier's 
cheek. 

There  was  another  who  had  observed  the  by-play — a 
dark-skinned  youth  in  a  wide  blue  blouse  who  stood  near 
a  pillar  at  the  door.    To  him  Yvette  Foy  turned  with  a 


I  oo        FLO  WER-O'-THE-CORN 

mocking  smile  upon  her  lips.  But  he  did  not  even  ob- 
serve her.  His  eyes  were  elsewhere,  even  upon  the  face 
of  Frances  Wellwood,  now  uplifted,  like  a  flower  which 
turns  to  the  sun,  as  her  father  began  to  speak. 

"  People  of  the  mount,"  he  said,  and  the  ring  of  his 
noble  voice  immediately  dominated  the  place  and  the 
hearts  of  all  the  men  and  women  therein,  "  ye  have  a 
fight  to  fight,  eye  to  eye,  and  foot  to  foot.  Ye  think  that 
all  your  striving  is  with  the  soldiers  of  Louis,  but  I  tell 
you  no.  The  enemy  is  within  your  own  gates — at  the 
lintels  of  your  doors,  by  your  own  firesides.  Repair  the 
breaches  of  Zion,  an  ye  will.  The  work  is  good.  Make 
her  bulwarks  strong.  But  first  of  all  be  sure  that  there 
is  not  a  traitor  close  to  you  as  the  beating  of  your  hearts. 
I  say,  look  well!  " 

And  to  Yvette  Foy,  entering,  it  seemed  for  a  moment 
that  he  spoke  of  her.  The  wild  wandering  eye  seemed 
somehow  to  search  her  out — the  reverberant,  tremendous 
utterance  took  hold  of  her.  She  shivered  where  she  stood. 
But  the  next  moment  the  preacher  had  taken  a  lower  in- 
tenser  tone.  He  turned  toward  the  seats  of  the  elders 
and  prophets. 

"  Ye  have  done  well,  folks  of  the  Cevennes,"  he  cried, 
"  better  than  well — eye-service,  hand-service,  lip-service, 
life-service.  Yet  many  swerve  with  all  these,  when  the 
heart  is  far  from  Him!  So  let  it  not  be  with  you.  Ye 
have  tasted  of  the  bitter  cup,  ye  say,  and  truly  ye  have 
drunk  your  wine  mingled  with  gall,  vinegar  upon  a  spray 
of  hyssop.  But  be  sure  that  ye  have  also  the  heart  clean 
and  new-made — the  heart  of  a  little  child!  " 

At  which  Yvette  Foy,  no  longer  concerned  as  to  any 
personal  application,  and  the  thrill  of  the  first  awe  hav- 
ing passed  away,  looked  about  her  curiously  and  saw  the 
face  of  Flower-o'-the-Corn  upraised,  the  child  looking 
out  of  her  turquoise  eyes,  and  the  innocence  of  a  heart  at 
ease  speaking  in  that  sole  glance. 

And  Yvette  smiled  a  tolerant  smile  as  she  looked. 

"  Was  it  possible?  "  she  thought,  that  she  should  have 


THE    JUDAS-TREE  loi 

feared  to  take  count  and  reckoning  with  such  a  babe. 
Then  with  a  deep  fold  of  lace  drawn  closely  about  her 
shapely  head  and  recrossed  over  her  bosom,  she  turned 
her  neck  this  way  and  that,  thinking  no  more  of  the 
sonorous  words  of  the  preacher  than  she  would  of  the 
roar  of  the  wind  in  the  caves  of  Mont  Ventour,  or 
the  surge  of  a  breaking  sea  upon  a  distant  shore. 

About  her  head  she  had  wound  a  thin  veil  of  finest  lace, 
which  contained  and  conditioned,  though  it  did  not  con- 
ceal, her  splendid  hair.  She  knew  that  her  forehead  was 
bright  and  broad  beneath  it,  her  lips  marvellously  red. 
There  was  no  one  like  her  in  all  the  hills  of  Cevenne  from 
Mende  even  to  Beziers.  Oh,  yes! — the  red-and-white 
stranger  girl  she  had  seen — she  knew  this  Frances  Well- 
wood.  She  would  go  and  wait  for  her  in  the  market- 
place. The  damask  rose  is  not  afraid  of  the  scentless  im- 
mortelle. 

So  she  rose  unceremoniously  in  the  midst  of  the  ser- 
mon, laid  her  stool  against  a  pillar,  and  with  the  air  and 
carriage  of  a  queen,  passed  serenely  out  into  the  hot  sud- 
den caressing  of  the  sunlight,  venting  a  great  sigh  of  re- 
lief as  the  fresh  warmth  of  the  forenoon  breathed  upon 
her  face. 

The  true  spirit  of  Yvette  Foy  returned  to  her  as  soon 
as  she  had  left  behind  her  the  dank  morning  heaviness  of 
the  little  church.  Glooms  and  fervors  of  the  spiritual 
sort  she  had  none  about  her,  and,  indeed,  she  recognized 
such  in  others  only  as  useful  factors  in  the  game  she  loved 
to  play.  With  all  her  bright  cleverness,  with  all  her 
knowledge  of  men,  women,  and  books,  in  spite  of  the 
glimpses  she  had  had  of  another  life,  the  base  of  her 
nature  was  essentially  a  desire  for  the  physical  well-being 
of  an  animal.  Herein  lay  the  difference  between  the  two 
girls.  Flower-o'-the-Corn  loved  everything  in  nature. 
It  was  all  fair  and  sweet  to  her — the  green,  waving  fodder- 
grass,  with  the  wind  passing  over  it  in  swirls  and  waves 
of  color  changeful  as  the  sheen  on  shot  silk,  the  keen 
verditer  of  the  bitter  wormwood,  the  barbaric  brilliance 


1 02         FLOWER-O'-THE-CORN 

of  pomegranate  blossoms  splashed  scarlet  against  a  tur- 
quoise sky.  These  and  suchlike  seemed  part  of  herself. 
They  made  her  life  vivid.  That  she  lived  on  plain  camp 
fare,  that  she  had  done  so  all  her  days,  and  never  ex- 
pected to  do  otherwise,  detracted  nothing  from  the  pleas- 
ure she  felt  in  being  with  her  father,  in  making  him  happy, 
and  in  gladdening  with  ready  graciousness  all  whose 
lives  came  across  hers.  Every  blown  blade  of  grass  on 
the  meadow-leas,  every  head  of  sorrel  sowing  its  plain- 
song  russet  seeds,  every  ascendent  gossamer,  with  its  lit- 
tle air-borne  traveller,  was  part  of  the  eternal  gladness  of 
life  to  Flower-o'-the-Corn.  They  were  comrades  whom 
she  encountered  as  she  went  out  and  in.  She  saluted 
them  as  if  they  had  been  sentries,  and  they  made  her 
heart  sing  within  her.  These  things  were  parts  of  her 
deepest  religion,  and  she  prattled  of  them  gayly  to  her 
father,  who  did  not  even  shake  his  head. 

A  very  wise  man  this  Patrick  Wellwood!  For  his  time 
and  upbringing  infinitely  so.  Yet  it  may  be  doubted 
whether  he  would  have  treated  others  after  this  fashion, 
if  any  had  dared  speak  to  him  thus  reverently  of  the  wind 
among  the  white-aproned  poplars,  or  ventured  to  bring 
him  shreds  of  bramble  leaves  frost-bitten  to  a  color  red- 
der than  red  and  more  brilliant  than  orange,  with  awe- 
stricken  faces  as  of  those  who  from  the  mountain  cleft 
had  seen  the  back  parts  of  God.  On  the  other  hand  he 
did  not  talk  to  Frances,  his  daughter,  much  of  inward 
grace  or  of  its  outward  signs.  He  knew  (this  good  minis- 
ter) that  none  needed  to  look  deeper  than  those  sky- 
steeped  eyes  to  know  that  the  graces  of  sweet  purity,  of 
untouched  innocence  had  their  abiding-place  there.  So 
though,  to  the  grave,  grim-faced  men  of  Ardmillan's  regi- 
ment, who  came  to  his  quarters  of  a  night,  he  discoursed 
as  one  having  authority  concerning  the  "  flinty  hearts 
within  them,"  "  the  resistance  of  the  natural  man  to  the 
work  of  grace,"  "  the  call  eflfectual  and  the  call  inefifect- 
ual,"  to  his  one  daughter  he  declared  no  word  of  these 
things. 


THE    JUDAS-TREE  103 

"  If  I  preach  over  long  at  any  time,"  he  had  said  when 
she  was  a  little  girl,  "  know  that  the  word  is  not  for  thee, 
beloved,  but  because  these  expect  it  so  to  be.  Open  thy 
Book  and  read  there  of  Ruth  and  Boaz,  or  of  the  anoint- 
ing oil  poured  out  on  little  David,  of  the  children  who 
strewed  palm-branches  for  His  feet — or  what  you  will! 
God,  who  made  the  Book,  will  guide  the  reader.  So  do, 
and  let  not  the  long  preachings  turn  your  heart  from  the 
assembling  of  yourself  together,  as  the  manner  of  too 
many  is!  " 

Now,  though  Yvette,  the  daughter  of  Martin  Foy  the 
Camisard,  loved  some  of  these  natural  things  also,  she 
loved  them  otherwise.  She  rejoiced  in  the  sunshine  be- 
cause in  it  her  being  expanded.  The  very  tissues  of  her 
body  changed  with  a  sense  of  physical  enlargement  and 
well-being.  She  hated  the  winter,  but  when  at  last  the 
spring  came  and  the  life-juice  made  the  world  new, 
Yvette  had  strange  thrillings  and  impulses  through  her 
body  as  if  she,  too,  were  kin  to  all  that  expanse  of  bour- 
geoning greenery  and  pink-blossoming  orchard. 

But  she  rejoiced  in  such  things  merely  as  a  part  of  the 
necessary  well-being  of  the  world — the  warm-aired  full- 
blooded  gusto  of  things,  in  which  she  had  her  part  as  a 
creature  who  loved  eating  and  drinking  and  lying  long 
warm  abed,  even  as  others  love  truth,  and  self-sacrifice, 
and  the  Word  of  God. 

Thus  it  was  with  these  two  who  were  now  to  face  each 
other  in  the  warm  coppery  glow  of  the  little  market-place, 
across  which  the  early  morning  shadows  still  lay  long  and 
blue. 

At  the  stalls  there  were  not  many  things  to  be  sold. 
No  great  choice  had  the  good  wives  of  La  Cavalerie,  a 
lamb  or  two  from  the  Gausses,  long-legged  and  spare  of 
rib,  eggs  in  plenty,  with  late  fruits  and  vegetables.  The 
women  sat  crouched  on  their  heels  by  their  baskets,  or 
with  their  small  stores  outspread  regularly  upon  the 
ground — onions,  leeks,  garlic,  potatoes,  ranged  side  by 
side,  while  a  calf,  tied  insecurely  to  a  cartwheel,  bleated 


1 04        FLO  WER-O'-THE-CORN 

for  the  comparative  freedom  of  the  rough-legged  lambkin, 
which  in  reality  was  to  die  as  soon  as  he. 


From  the  little  Camisard  Temple  over  the  way  came  a 
chaunt,  weighty  and  solemn.  The  market-women  in- 
clined their  heads  with  willing  reverence.  They  were  all 
"  of  the  Bond,"  and  would  gladly  have  been  present,  but 
what  would  you?  The  pot  at  home  must  be  boiled,  and 
who  but  they  in  these  times  could  win  the  wherewithal 
to  fill  it?  It  was  Friday  every  day  of  the  week  for  such 
as  they,  poor  folk — soupe  maigre  indeed  they  partook  of, 
though  they  held  not  by  the  errors  of  Rome! 

At  last  the  worshippers  were  coming  out.  Morning 
song  was  over,  the  service  had  been  of  more  than  usual 
solemnity,  because  the  Sacrament  of  the  Lord's  Supper 
was  at  hand.  Moreover  the  Genevan  pastor  had  spoken 
at  length,  and  as  one  having  authority. 

Martin  Foy  came  last  of  all,  lingering  a  little  on  the 
threshold  for  a  word  with  the  old  man,  who  looked  not  a 
little  gray  and  weary  after  the  effort  of  preaching. 

When,  however,  he  did  issue  forth  of  the  little  church, 
Patrick  Wellwood  still  held  him  by  the  hand,  expounding 
the  decrees  of  God  as  applied  to  the  scheme  general  of 
events  and  to  the  lives  of  men,  a  thesis  which  naturally 
took  some  time  to  develop  and  complete. 

The  minister  was,  of  course,  wholly  absorbed  in  the 
great  solemnities  of  life.  For  himself  he  was  very  sure. 
Though  as  to  every  other  man — why,  to  his  own  master 
let  him  stand  or  fall. 

But  Martin  Foy,  though  a  disciple  both  willing  and 
attentive,  lost  his  grip  even  of  the  Divine  decrees,  at  the 
sight  which  met  his  eye  in  the  warm  slantwise  pour  of 
the  sunlight. 

There,  in  the  little  Grande  Place  of  La  Cavalerie,  the 
sun  shining  equally  upon  the  sentinels  on  the  walls  and 
on  the  market-women  sitting  like  brooding  hens  in  the 
white  dust  along  the  western  wall,  in  the  midst  of  a  si- 


THE    JUDAS-TREE  105 

lence  like  that  of  Eden,  there  had  happened  a  thing  which 
was  to  affect  the  Hves  and  happiness  of  all  those  with 
whom  this  history  concerns  itself,  far  more  than  the  de- 
cisions of  cabinets  and  the  successions  of  great  kingdoms. 

Of  her  own  accord  Yvette  Foy  had  crossed  the  road 
and  was  holding  out  her  hand  to  Frances  Wellwood. 

It  was  near  the  great  door  of  the  Bon  Chretien,  and  as 
these  two  stood  thus  hand-in-hand,  the  Judas-tree  in  the 
courtyard,  wind-stirred,  flung  down  a  last  belated  blos- 
som, red  as  the  lips  which  in  the  morning  sunshine 
smiled  their  sweetest  upon  Flower-o'-the-Corn. 

She  took  Yvette's  hand  and  smiled  also. 


I 


XII 

THE   SPY-HOLE    ON    THE    STAIRWAY 

HAVE  heard  of  your  so  great  kindness  to  our  poor 
folk,"  were  Yvette  Foy's  first  words,  her  hand  still 

lying  warm  within  her  new  friend's  grasp-,  "  and 

my  heart  was  touched  yesterday  when  I  saw  you  carry 
the  poor  dead  babe  from  the  house  of  Anna  Moreau!  " 

Flower-o'-the-Corn  blushed,  and  then  suddenly  smiled 
at  the  new-comer  brightly  and  cordially. 

"  It  was  kind  of  them  to  permit  a  stranger  do  so  much," 
she  said.  And  then,  changing  the  subject,  she  added, 
"  You  are  Mistress  Foy,  are  you  not?  the  daughter  of 
the  Hosteller  who  has  spoken  so  kindly  to  my  father  at 
the  preachings?  " 

"  I  am  indeed  Yvette  Foy,"  the  girl  answered,  "  and 
one  much  honored  to  make  your  acquaintance.  Why 
have  we  not  seen  you  ere  this  at  our  poor  house  of  the 
Bon  Chretien?  " 

"  Because — because,"  said  Frances,  her  face  breaking 
into  a  slow  smile,  "  in  my  country  it  is  the  custom  to  wait 
for  an  invitation  before  setting  foot  across  one's  neigh- 
bor's threshold." 

"  But  my  father  tells  me  he  has  often  invited  yours  to 
sup  with  us?"  persisted  Yvette. 

Flower-o'-the-Corn  looked  slightly  distressed. 

"  I  had  not  thought,"  she  began,  and  then  stopped — 
"  that  is,  I  had  not  supposed  you  would  wish  to  see  me!  " 

"  And  why,  pray?  " 

There  came  a  dark  habitually  covert  glitter  into  the 
eyes  of  Yvette  Foy. 

"  Someone  has  been  telling  tales,"  she  thought,  and 

io6 


THE    SPY-HOLE  107 

waited  to  find  out  who.  But  tale-telling,  even  in  its  mild- 
est form  of  telling  upon  the  tale-teller,  was  impossible  to 
Flower-o'-the-Corn. 

"  Why,  I  heard,"  she  said,  artlessly,  "  that  you  were  so 
clever." 

Yvette  Foy  laughed  aloud  in  her  turn. 

"  You  will  not  tell  me  who  told  you,"  she  said;  "  it  is 
you  who  are  clever,  and  I  did  not  know  it!  " 

"  Oh,  /  am  not  clever  at  all,"  returned  Frances,  simply. 
"  I  have  only  followed  my  father  from  city  to  city  and 
from  camp  to  camp.     I  know  only  men." 

In  her  inner  heart  Yvette  thought  that  to  know  men 
was  not  the  least  to  be  desired  of  accomplishments,  but 
she  did  not  say  so.  She  only  drew  her  arm  through  her 
companion's  with  a  smiling  happy  air. 

"  You  know  men,  the  wretches!  "  she  cried;  "  why,  you 
know  as  much  as  a  baby!" — "As  the  babe  you  carried 
yesterday,"  she  was  about  to  say,  but  checked  herself. 
"  Come  with  me,  and  we  will  enlighten  each  other  on  the 
iniquities  and  follies  of  men.  For  I,  too,  have  lived  among 
them,  and  if  I  have  any  cleverness  it  is  to  know  them  for 
what  they  are — dull-minded,  hateful  deceivers,  or  all 
cock-a-hoop  because  they  have  just  killed  a  sparrow  with 
a  six-pounder  carronade!  " 

The  two  girls  walked  apart  from  the  crowd  of  the 
market-place  smiling  and  conversing.  Such  a  pair  for 
loveliness  was  never  seen  together — fair  and  dark,  corn- 
flower and  passion-flower,  pearl  and  black  diamond.  But 
all  the  same  they  bent  prettily  enough  inward,  their  arms 
about  each  other's  waists,  whispering  and  smiling  se- 
cretly, with  the  adorable  simplicity  of  fair  maids  who 
know  themselves  under  the  eyes  of  many.  So  in  the  lit- 
tle Grande  Place  of  La  Cavalerie  these  two  walked  and 
walked  apart,  much  as  they  might  have  done  on  the  long 
terrace  at  Versailles,  whence  the  green-moulded  statues 
are  seen  standing  shivery  in  the  wet  of  the  bleak  night. 

"  Pity  me,"  said  Yvette,  gently,  "  I  have  no  moth- 
er  " 


1 08        FLOWER-O'-THE-CORN 

"Nor  I!"  Frances  answered  with  a  quick  sigh,  in- 
stinctively drawing  her  new  friend  to  her;  "/  know — at 
times  it  is  hard  for  a  girl.     Do  you  remember  her?  " 

"  Yes,  truly,"  said  Yvette,  "  she  held  my  father  from 
this  folly  of  his  while  she  lived.  And  when  she  died — 
then  it  was  he  sent  me  to  school  in  Paris,  to  be  out  of  his 
way!" 

"Ah!"  said  Frances,  reproachfully,  "do  not  speak 
thus  of  your  father,  if  he  is  all  that  is  left  to  you,  as  mine 
is!    And,  besides,  my  father  says  he  is  a  good  man." 

Yvette  laughed  a  little  laugh,  very  deep  in  her  throat. 

"Yes,"  she  said,  scornfully,  "a  good  man,  doubtless; 
that  is,  to  be  someone  else's  father.  It  is  very  well  for  you, 
my  fair  lady,  who  go  out  everywhere  into  the  world  of 
men  with  your  father,  ever  seeing  new  lands  and  the  faces 
of  new  folk,  and  brave  soldiers  and  great  men — very  easy 
for  you  to  prate  to  Yvette  Foy  of  fathers!  " 

"  Nay,  nay,"  said  Flower-o'-the-Corn,  blushing,  "  I 
know  what  you  mean  very  well,  but,  indeed,  it  is  not  so. 
There  is  no  man  anywhere,  in  highland  or  lowland, 
mountain  or  isle,  whose  company  I  would  prefer  to  that 
of  my  father!  " 

"Then  the  more  fool  you,  with  such  chances!"  mur- 
mured Mistress  Yvette  under  her  breath.  But  aloud  she 
said,  patting  Flower-o'-the-Corn's  delicately-rounded 
arm  on  which  her  hand  was  lying.  "  Ah,  one  day  you  will 
change — one  day,  my  dear!  There  is  a  ship  coming  to 
you  from  over  the  sea.  The  sails  of  it  are  samite  and  the 
masts  pure  gold,  as  the  old  story  tells,  and  its  burden  is 
love — love — love!" 

"  I  suppose  love  for  a  woman?  "  said  Frances,  looking 
at  her  winsomely  under  her  eyelashes,  "  since  you  fright 
me  with  such  dreadful  stories  of  men." 

She  sighed. 

"  Yet  they  have  been  very  kind  to  me — some  of  them," 
she  said,  reflectively;  "  and — and  I  have  not  always  been 
very  kind  to  them." 

"  That  is  the  safest  way  to  bind  a  man  to  you,"  said 


THE    SPY-HOLE  109 

the  voice  of  experience,  "  to  be  at  the  first  a  little  un- 
kind! " 

Yvette  thought  a  little  while,  and  then  added,  "  After- 
ward not — they  tire  of  it  sooner  than  the  other." 

Then  catching  a  little  fear  on  the  flushing  face  of  Fran- 
ces Wellwood,  Yvette  put  her  hand  tenderly  about  the 
girl's  neck.  "  You  need  not  fear,  little  one,  with  such  a 
face  as  yours  and  those  fatal  eyes — love  will  come  to  you 
fresh  every  morning  across  the  years,  be  you  kind  or  be 
you  unkind!  " 

"Till  we  are  old  people,  do  you  think?"  queried 
Flower-o'-the-Corn,  who  thought  of  the  love  of  one  only. 
Her  heart  beat  a  little  thickly,  she  knew  not  why.  "  Will 
he  always  love  me  just  as  much  as  when  I  am  young?  " 

"  Doubt  it  not,"  said  Yvette,  subtly  changing  her  own 
thought;  "he  will  always  love  you — that  is,  if  you  are 
wise.  Only,  do  not  be  too  early  in  fixing  on  the  particu- 
lar *  he  ' — that  is  all  the  advice  I  have  to  give  you  in  the 
matter!  " 

A  figure  passed  across  the  Grande  Place,  going  in  the 
direction  of  the  auberge  of  the  Bon  Chretien. 

"Who  is  that?"  said  Flower-o'-the-Corn,  quickly. 
For  a  certain  martial  swing  was  asserting  itself  even 
through  the  blue  blouse,  the  corduroy  breeches,  and 
hooded  cape  of  Pierre  the  Wagoner  of  Brabant. 

Yvette  patted  her  cheek  again. 

"  Ah,  dearest,"  she  said,  most  caressingly,  "  do  not  be 
in  a  hurry.  You  cannot  expect  your  ship  to  come  to  an- 
chor up  here  among  these  wild  hills.  That  is  but  Master 
Pierre  the  Wagoner  from  Flanders — he  whose  barrels 
were  ransacked  the  other  night  by  our  good  honest 
friends  of  this  Protestant  village " 

"  The  same  who  brought  the  despatches  and  the  can- 
non?" said  Frances.  "  I  was  there — out  on  the  Causses 
that  night.  He — he  has  never  even  thanked  me  for  sav- 
ing his  life!    I  should  like  to  see  him  again." 

Yvette  looked  down  and  sketched  a  triangle  with  her 
toe  on  the  ground.     Then  with  mathematical  exactness 


1 1  o        FLOWER-O'-THE-CORN 

she  constructed  another  on  the  base  of  the  first,  so  that 
presently  she  had  made  a  diamond  lozenge  in  the  dust. 

"  Better,  perhaps,  that  you  should  not,"  said  Yvette,  in 
a  low  tone. 

"And  why?"  cried  Frances,  with  a  kind  of  catch  in 
her  voice. 

"  There  are  things  which  it  is  not  fitting  for  a  girl  to 
hear,"  said  Yvette,  still  with  her  eyes  upon  the  ground; 
"  remember,  I  am  older  than  you,  Mistress  Wellwood!  " 

Flower-o'-the-Corn  turned  instantly  upon  Yvette  Foy 
and  held  her  tightly  by  the  wrist,  looking  into  her  face. 

"  You  must  tell  me  now,"  she  said,  earnestly;  "  I  am 
no  child.  I  have  heard  how  men  speak  to  men.  He 
came  once  and  my  father  bade  him  return.  He  will  re- 
turn.   Why  then  should  I  not  speak  with  him?" 

The  dark  girl  looked  every  way  about. 

"  It  is  not  safe  to  speak  out  here,"  she  murmured; 
"  come  to  my  room  and  I  will  tell  you !  " 

Really  she  only  meant  to  gain  time.  She  must  fatally 
prejudice  the  young  man  in  the  regard  of  Flower-o'-the- 
Corn,  and  to  this  end  she  had  made  certain  arrangements. 

Now  Frances,  not  being  greatly  interested  in  any  young 
man,  save  that  justice  should  be  done  one  whom  she  be- 
lieved innocent,  went  readily  enough  with  Yvette  Foy. 

There  was  a  private  entrance  to  the  Templar's  house, 
by  means  of  a  low  door  in  a  little  side  street  leading  up 
into  a  circular  tower  in  which  was  a  stair.  By  this  the 
girls  presently  ascended  to  Yvette's  own  chamber,  hear- 
ing beneath  them  the  clattering  of  many  horses'  hoofs  as 
they  moved  restlessly  on  the  irregular  paving-stones  of 
the  stable. 

At  one  point  there  was  a  little  spy-hole  through  the 
inner  wall,  which  gave  immediately  into  the  stable.  Be- 
fore this  Yvette  stopped,  standing  a  moment  on  tiptoe 
daintily.  For  though  she  was  tall,  yet  the  spy-hole  had 
been  arranged  for  the  height  of  a  man's  eyes. 

Suddenly  she  clapped  her  hands  lightly  together. 
Something  had  fallen  out  beyond  her  expectation. 


THE    SPY-HOLE  iii 

"  Look,  look !  "  she  whispered  eagerly  to  Flower-o'- 
the-Corn. 

With  something  that  made  her  ashamed  in  her  heart, 
yet  for  the  present  with  no  power  to  resist,  Frances 
looked.  There,  immediately  beneath,  were — not  Pierre 
the  Wagoner  as  she  had  expected,  but — the  other  two 
strangers  whom  she  had  seen  at  the  capturing  of  the 
wagons  out  on  the  moonlit  plain — a  man  and  a  woman. 
They  were  engaged  in  brushing  and  refolding  a  suit  of 
military  clothes.  It  was  to  all  appearance  the  same  which 
Billy  Marshall  had  saved  with  such  jealous  care  out  of 
the  sack  of  the  King's  wagons,  and  the  pair  did  their 
work  as  if  well  accustomed  to  the  task. 

"  See,"  said  Yvette  Foy,  with  a  deep  kind  of  silent  tri- 
umph, "  there,  all  unexpectedly,  is  the  proof  of  what  I 
brought  you  here  to  tell  you.  The  man  who  owns  that 
comes  amongst  us  poor  folk  of  the  Cevennes  as  a  traitor!  " 

With  the  quick  eye  of  one  who  has  lived  all  her  life 
among  soldiers,  Frances  recognized  that  the  garments, 
which  were  now  being  swiftly  folded  and  put  away,  con- 
stituted a  complete  officer's  uniform  of  the  Maison  du 
Roi,  or  King's  guard  of  the  French  army! 


XIII 

CERTAIN   SPOKES    IN    CERTAIN   WHEELS 

IT  was  not  for  the  moment  a  matter  of  supreme  per- 
sonal importance  to  Flower-o'-the-Corn  whether 
the  Camisards  of  La  Cavalerie  were,  or  were  not, 
entertaining  a  traitor  unawares.  She  had,  indeed,  inter- 
posed to  save  the  young  man's  life,  as  she  would  have 
done  had  he  been  thrice  a  traitor,  and  of  the  most  patri- 
archal age  and  commonplace  appearance. 

But  that  which  disturbed  Flower-o'-the-Corn  was  the 
knowledge  that  her  father,  the  chaplain  of  Ardmillan's 
regiment,  a  British  officer  according  to  military  rating, 
should  also  be  in  this  place,  disguised,  and  under  condi- 
tions which  she  could  not  but  recognize  would  bring  him 
to  the  gallows  if  discovered — while  at  the  same  time  she 
had  been  the  means  of  introducing  among  the  Camisards 
one  who  might  prove  to  be  a  French  spy,  armed  with  false 
papers  and  furnished  with  easily-procured  stores  and 
muniments,  such  as  had  given  an  air  of  truth  to  his  deceit. 

By  this  time  the  girls  were  seated  in  Yvette's  chamber, 
which  was  pleasantly  situated  on  the  third  or  highest 
story  of  the  Templar's  house,  the  village  being  spread  out 
far  below  like  a  collection  of  bee-hives. 

"  And  why,"  said  Flower-o'-the-Corn  to  Yvette,  "  if 
this  man  be  really  a  spy  of  the  enemy,  as  you  say,  do  you 
not  denounce  him  to  your  father?  Or,  better  still,  to 
General  Cavalier?  " 

A  deep  silence  fell  between  the  two  young  women. 
Yvette  Foy  looked  straightly  at  her  new  friend,  like  one 
who  in  all  her  life  has  had  nothing  to  conceal. 

"  That  were  indeed  easy,"  she  said,  calmly;  "  it  was 


CERTAIN    SPOKES  113 

my  first  thought.  But  then  a  French  officer  is  a  gentle- 
man. I  have  no  desire  to  see  him  torn  hmb  from  Hmb  by 
a  howhng  rabble,  as  he  would  be  if  anything  of  what  we 
know  appeared.  And,  secondly,  he  and  his  people  are 
lodging  in  this  house,  so  that  I  can  have  them  constantly 
under  observation." 

"  But  General  Cavalier — my  father — the  other  Prot- 
estant leaders,"  urged  Frances  Wellwood,  "  they  are 
constantly  walking  about  and  talking  with  this  young 
man.    They  will  betray  their  secrets  to  him." 

"  As  to  General  Cavalier,  as  you  call  him,"  said 
Yvette,  with  supreme  contempt,  "  the  apprentice  baker 
can  attend  to  his  own  afifairs.  I  am  not  his  nursemaid. 
And  as  to  your  father — my  dear,  have  no  fear  for  him! 
The  Camisards  will  listen  to  his  preachings,  but  will  tell 
him  nothing  material — not  if  he  were  to  remain  here  a 
hundred  years.  Do  not  be  afraid  for  him.  Just  because 
he  is  the  one  true  prophet  among  the  many  false,  God 
will  send  His  angels  to  watch  over  him.  Did  I  not  listen 
to  him  this  morning,  and  his  words  were  those  of  a  very 
man  of  God." 

Yvette  lifted  up  her  beautiful  eyes  as  she  spoke.  Her 
voice  deepened.  There  came  a  kind  of  awe  into  that 
thrilling  contralto,  infinitely  afifecting  to  Flower-o'-the- 
Corn. 

Nothing  touched  her  so  much  as  praise  of  her  father. 
Lovers  might  tell  her  daily  for  years  of  her  own  beauty. 
Their  praise  was  as  the  twittering  of  sparrows  under  the 
eaves.  But  this  strange  girl,  the  daughter  of  Martin  Foy 
the  Camisard,  saw  deeper  into  her  heart  than  any  man 
of  them  all,  and  to  win  her  passed  by  Frances  to  praise 
Patrick  Wellwood. 

Flower-o'-the-Corn  rose  impulsively  and  threw  her 
arms  about  her  new  friend's  neck. 

"  Oh,  I  shall  love  you  dearly,  I  know!  "  she  cried,  with 
a  kind  of  sob.  "  I  have  been  so  lonely  here — a  girl  with 
no  one  to  speak  to  except  my  father." 

It  was  with  a  not  altogether  ungenuine  emotion  that 


1 1 4         FLOWER-O'-THE-CORN 

Yvette  returned  the  embrace.  She  could  at  all  times 
command  the  outward  signs  of  feeling,  and  in  this  lay 
her  danger  to  others.  For  none  are  more  easily  imposed 
upon  by  sudden  displays  of  sentiment  than  men  and 
women  of  cold  natures.  Now  Flower-o'-the-Corn  was 
anything  but  cold.  Her  heart  sprang  to  her  eyes  at  a 
word  or  a  thought.  Her  underlip  quivered.  The  sen- 
sitive lines  about  her  mouth  were  all  a-tremble  in  a  mo- 
ment if  she  imagined  that  one  she  loved  was  slighted  or 
wronged. 

Nevertheless,  till  a  woman  has  once  known  love  and 
its  capacities  of  sacrifice,  there  is  always  something  about 
her  a  little  hard.  One  traces  the  same  thing,  grown  older 
and  more  bitter,  in  women  who  have  loved  and  been  un- 
deceived. It  is  in  its  essence  a  distrust  of  men,  a  resolve 
to  do  without  them — a  revolt  against  the  place  they  ar- 
rogate to  themselves  in  the  affairs  of  the  world. 

There  was,  however,  nothing  of  this  about  Yvette  Foy. 
She  knew  that  she  could  not  alter  the  scheme  of  things. 
In  spite  of  all  that  women  might  do,  men  would  have 
the  upper  hand  in  the  world — at  least  outwardly.  But 
nature  (she  knew)  had  gifted  her  with  certain  other 
qualities  and  capacities,  which  had  been  of  great  impor- 
tance since  the  beginning  of  the  world,  and  she  was 
resolved  that  if  men  ruled  the  universe,  she  would  rule 
the  rulers — or,  at  least,  such  of  them  as  fell  in  her  way. 

With  this  initial  difference  between  the  girls,  it  was 
no  wonder  that  the  apparent  advantages  were  all  on  the 
side  of  the  daughter  of  Martin  Foy,  or  that,  when  she 
undertook  the  education  of  her  junior,  the  very  simplicity 
and  directness  of  Frances  made  her  like  wax  in  the  hands 
of  this  self-constituted  guardian  and  tutoress. 

"  What  would  you  have  me  do?  "  said  Frances,  meekly, 
to  Yvette  Foy,  "  if  I  am  not  to  inform  my  father  that 
there  may  be  a  traitor  in  the  camp?  " 

"  We  do  not  yet  know  all,"  said  Yvette,  in  a  low  tone; 
"who  are  we,  you  and  I?  Two  girls  who  have  no  ex- 
perience of  treaties  and  embassies,  or  of  the  hither  and 


CERTAIN    SPOKES  115 

thither  of  poHtics.  What  have  we  seen?  Only  a  suit  of 
foreign  regimentals,  which  if  we  charge  the  man  with 
the  possession  of,  he  will  doubtless  say  that  he  obtained 
in  order  to  further  his  progress  hither !  " 

The  heart  of  her  listener  lightened  perceptibly  at  the 
admission. 

"  But  I  understood  you  to  say  that  you  wished  to  save 
him  from  the  fury  of  the  Camisards!  "  said  Flower-o'-the- 
Corn,  a  little  mystified  by  her  companion's  rapid  mental 
gymnastics;  "  nozv  you  say  that  a  word  of  his  own  might 
suffice  to  clear  him.    He  may  then  be  innocent  after  all!  " 

"  Nay,  little  one,"  said  Yvette,  using  the  most  difficult 
of  all  arguments  for  the  inexperienced  to  parry,  "  I  have 
lived  all  my  life  in  the  midst  of  these  things.  You  are  a 
new-comer  and  very  young.  One  day  you  shall  know  all. 
In  the  meantime,  what  you  have  to  do  is  simply  to  steer 
clear  of  this  young  man  with  the  too  superabundant 
changes  of  raiment.  P^or  the  sake  of  your  father's  life, 
if  not  your  own,  do  not  be  so  unwise  as  to  have  any  deal- 
ings with  him." 

"  That  is  at  least  a  prescription  easy  to  follow,"  laughed 
Frances  frankly  and  readily,  "  for  indeed  and  indeed  I  do 
not  care  if  I  never  saw  him  again." 

At  this  Yvette  kissed  her  friend,  murmuring  vague 
girlish  tendernesses.  Then  she  gently  disengaged  herself 
and  walked  to  the  window.  Far  down,  at  the  entrance  of 
a  certain  dark  entry,  stood  a  cloaked  figure,  the  same  she 
had  seen  in  the  church  as  she  passed  out  during  sermon 
time. 

Yvette  Foy  smiled  bitterly  to  herself. 

"Ah,  you  there  still,  my  good  wagoner!"  she  mut- 
tered; "well,  at  some  trouble  and  expense  to  myself  I 
have  succeeded  in  putting  a  somewhat  considerable  spoke 
in  your  wheel,  Master  Pierre  Dubois  of  Roche-a-Bayard 
and  Hoo!  " 

Pretty  it  was  after  this  to  listen  to  the  give-and-take 
of  confidence   between  these  two — especially  the  give. 


1 1 6        FLOWER-O'-THE-CORN 

For  while  Yvette  said  little,  this  our  dove  of  a  Frances, 
rejoicing  to  have  one  of  her  own  age  and  sex  to  confide 
in,  told  out  all  that  was  within  her  heart  with  the  sweetest 
and  most  delicate  blushings  in  the  world. 

And  it  was  a  tale  to  strike  her  listener  with  envy.  For 
though  it  dealt  only  with  the  innocentest  and  slightest 
girlish  admirations,  likings,  preferences,  what  opportu- 
nities did  the  experienced  Yvette  not  discern !  What 
glimpses  of  a  world  of  men  in  rapid  and  brilliant  action, 
what  glancings  of  golden  epaulettes,  glittering  of  lace, 
clinking  of  spurs — the  hither  and  thither  of  the  officers 
of  a  hundred  regiments  and  half-a-dozen  services!  Con- 
tempt, not  unmixed  with  a  certain  wonder,  took  pos- 
session of  the  heart  of  Yvette  Foy. 

And  this  girl  had  walked  through  it  all  like  one  in  a 
dream!  A  handsome  young  aide-de-camp  of  a  comman- 
der-in-chief had  confronted  her  among  the  Brabant  wheat 
— apart — with  admiration  radiant  in  his  eyes,  and  she 
(Flower-o'-the-Corn)  had  ridden  off  with  a  simple  laugh- 
ing word  upon  a  borrowed  horse.  Right  enough  if  she 
had  meant  to  engage  him  further  upon  the  morrow,  but 
as  it  was — did  anyone  ever  hear  of  such  stupidity,  of  sim- 
plicity that  reached  and  overpassed  the  verges  of  folly? 

Yvette  Foy  had  to  bite  her  nether  lip  to  keep  in  the 
words  of  contempt.  The  tears  almost  started  in  her  eyes 
to  think  of  such  opportunities  wasted. 

And  meanwhile,  Flower-o'-the-Corn  prattled  on,  re- 
gardless of  all. 

"  Yes,"  she  said,  "  it  stays  in  my  mind  that  he  admired 
me!  I  do  not  know  why — but  he  did.  Men  do  these 
things.  No,  I  did  not  tell  my  father.  Why  should  I  in- 
trude on  his  thinkings,  which  are,  indeed,  of  things  quite 
other  than  young  men's  follies.  But  somehow — some- 
how, though  others  have  looked  like  that  at  me,  there 
was  something  about  him,  perhaps  his  puzzled  air  as  I 
rode  away  (I  could  laugh  at  it  then)  that,  that — well,  it 
made  me  think  of  him  afterward.  I  own  it.  Of  course  I 
shall  never  see  him  again.     Yes,  I  know  his  name.     He 


CERTAIN    SPOKES  117 

was  well  known  about  the  camp  of  Namur,  being  secre- 
tary to  my  Lord  Marlborough." 

"  Well,  his  name — what  was  it?  "  demanded  Yvette, 
who  in  a  love  affair  liked  to  get  to  the  root  of  the  matter 
quickly. 

"  His  name  was — that  is,  he  was  called,  so  they  told 
me  (for  indeed  I  never  spoke  to  him  again) — Captain 
Maurice  Raith,  of  his  Excellency  the  Commander-in- 
Chief's  staff." 

"  He  was  handsome?  " 

"  Of  a  handsomeness — yes,"  said  Flower-o'-the-Corn, 
curling  her  lip  with  an  elaboration  of  considering  the 
question  in  all  its  bearings. 

"  A-h-h!  "  said  Yvette  very  softly  to  herself,  "  he  was 
handsome,  was  he — of  his  Excellency's  staff?  His  name, 
Captain  Maurice  Raith.  Ah,  Captain — my  pretty  Cap- 
tain. If  I  do  not  hold  you  now  in  the  hollow  of  my  hand 
— crack  thy  whip,  good  Master  Wagoner!  For,  if  so  it 
prove,  the  thing  that  I  desire  is  mine  own  already,  or  I 
shall  know  the  reason  why." 


The  defences  of  the  village  were  approaching  a  state 
of  completion.  La  Cavalerie  was  now  the  safest  of  all 
the  strengths  of  the  Camisards. 

But  victual  and  forage  were  at  a  perilously  low  ebb  in 
case  of  a  sudden  attack.  A  foray  became  necessary.  The 
point  of  attack  and  the  leader  must  be  decided  upon. 

As  to  the  latter  there  could  be  little  question.  The 
Camisards  would  follow  Jean  Cavalier  and  no  other 
man,  so  long  as  he  remained  among  them.  Had  he  not 
been  almost  uniformly  successful?  Was  his  name  not 
a  bugbear  and  a  terror  from  Nant  on  the  Dourbie  to  the 
bridge  of  Beaucaire?  Roland,  Catinat,  Castinet — these 
were  good  men  and  true  prophets,  but  no  one  of  them 
approached  Jean  Cavalier  in  the  power  over  men  which 
makes  command  easy  and  natural.  Furthermore,  in  the 
opinion  of  the  Camisards,  the  Lord  was  with  him.     He 


1 1 8        FLOWER-O'-THE-CORN 

prophesied  but  seldom,  but  when  he  did,  the  thing  hap- 
pened. Not  once,  nor  yet  twice  was  it  so,  but  always. 
Which  repute  naturally  made  him  careful  of  his  words, 
and  a  judicious  silence  passed  equally  for  wisdom. 

As  for  Pierre  the  Wagoner,  he  watched  every  move- 
ment of  Flower-o'-the-Corn.  He  saw  her  convoy  her 
father  out  in  the  morning,  and,  wrapping  his  cloak  about 
him,  was  at  the  door  of  the  little  temple  before  her.  But 
when  they  came  past  Frances  was  leaning  upon  Patrick 
Wellwood's  arm,  and  looking  up  in  his  face,  as  he  told 
her  of  the  message  which  had  been  given  him  for  those 
"  poor,  ill-learned,  ill-advised,  but  earnest-seeking  folk." 

So  she  did  not  notice  the  young  man  in  the  shadow 
with  the  cloak  about  his  mouth  and  the  eyes  that  never 
left  her  face.  She  was  thinking  of  other  things.  But 
neither  his  presence  nor  the  direction  of  his  eyes  escaped 
the  Demoiselle  Yvette  Foy,  who  made  her  entrance  a 
little  later. 

When  Frances  came  out  again,  it  was  with  grinding  of 
teeth  that  Pierre  the  Wagoner  watched  her  leave  her 
father's  arm  to  encounter  Yvette,  and  noted  the  increas- 
ing friendliness  of  the  two  girls.  (Which,  when  one 
thinks  of  it,  was,  after  all,  the  most  natural  thing  in  the 
world.) 

Angry  and  baffled,  Maurice  continued  to  pace  the  nar- 
row malodorous  streets  till  he  was  footsore.  Also  he  had 
strained  his  neck  with  craning  it  upward  to  look  into  the 
windows  of  the  Bon  Chretien. 

Dark-browed  Camisards,  passing  this  way  and  that 
upon  their  occasions,  glanced  sidelong  at  him  and  re- 
marked to  each  other  in  undertones  that  the  emissary  of 
the  allies  was  overmuch  given  to  spying  through  women's 
grilles,  and  that  all  honest  men  with  uncertainties  of  the 
feminine  order  in  their  houses  had  best  keep  their  eyes 
open.  At  which  fathers  of  families  nodded  gravely  and 
parted. 

All  this  and  more  our  Maurice  suffered  for  naught — 
nay,  had  he  known  it,  for  less  than  nothing. 


CERTAIN    SPOKES  119 

For  from  a  topmost  tower  window  of  the  Templars' 
House  did  not  a  pretty  spiteful  face  regard  him  as  he 
stood  grinding  the  innocent  paving-stones  beneath  his 
heels,  and  chewing  the  bitter  cud  of  his  disappointment. 

"  Ah,"  murmured  the  voice,  with  a  low  soft  trill  of 
scorn  in  it,  "  Flower-o'-the-Corn — did  you  call  her?  A 
pretty  maid,  a  pretty  name — by  my  faith,  both  fulsome 
pretty.  But  such  flowers  are  not  for  you,  my  wagoner 
gentleman!  Thistles,  plain  thistles,  shall  be  your  diet. 
Plain,  green,  purple-topped  thistles  with  ragged  leaves, 
cropped  on  an  empty  belly  by  the  roadside,  your  long 
ears  flip-flapping  in  the  wind  that  frets  every  ass  on  the 
common,  and  every  Tom-fool  on  the  earth  they  call 
God's!  Such,  if  Yvette  Foy  can  arrange  it,  shall  be  your 
portion!  " 


XIV 

THE    MAISON    ROUGE 

FRANCES  WELLWOOD  was  hurrying  home. 
It  was  already  late  in  the  autumnal  afternoon. 
Her  father  would  be  waiting  for  the  dish  of  tea 
which  only  she  could  brew  for  him — or,  more  likely, 
having  waited  in  vain,  he  would  be  gone  out  to  complete 
"  his  surfeit  of  good  works,"  as  (somewhat  irreverently) 
she  called  his  rounds  of  exhortations  and  visitations 
among  the  poor  of  La  Cavalerie. 

Suddenly  Pierre  the  Wagoner  stood  before  her.  He 
appeared  cloaked  and  hatted  from  the  dark  of  the  entry. 
With  a  certain  forgetfulness  of  his  assumed  position  he 
held  out  his  hand  to  Flower-o'-the-Corn,  frankly  and 
freely  as  one  of  her  own  nation  might  have  done. 

"  I  have  again  to  thank  you  for  saving  my  life,"  he 
said.  "  I  did  not  venture  to  trouble  you  yesterday  with 
a  formal  visit,  because  I  saw  you  had  other  matters  to 
occupy  you.  But  now  I  do.  The  preservation  of  my 
Hfe  may  not  seem  much  to  be  thankful  for.  It  is  of  small 
value  to  anyone  but  myself,  but  such  as  it  is,  I  am  no 
way  likely  to  have  another,  and  so  am  grateful  to  you 
for  saving  the  one  I  have.  I  know — there  is  always 
something  stupid  in  the  uttering  of  such  things — but, 
briefly,  if  there  is  ever  anything  in  your  life  in  which  a 
man  can  help  you,  think  of  Pierre  the  Wagoner !  " 

"  I  thank  you."  said  Flower-o'-the-Corn.  coldly  ;  "  but, 
in  case  of  need,  to  which  camp  shall  I  send  my  messen- 
ger?" 

She  was  thinking  of  the  suit  of  French  clothes  wrapped 
up  by  his  servant  so  carefully  in  their  coverings  of  rough 


THE    MAISON    ROUGE         121 

matting.  Yet  it  was  for  a  reason  at  which  she  could  not 
even  guess  that  the  young  man  was  overwhelmed  with 
confusion. 

"To  which  camp?  Your  messenger?"  he  queried, 
faltering  and  changing  color  as  he  spoke. 

"  Yes,"  she  continued,  smiling  upon  him  with  inten- 
tion. "  Did  I  not  understand  you  to  ofifer  me  such  help 
as  a  man  who  means  what  he  says,  may  honestly  give  a 
woman  who  needs  it?  " 

"  Indeed,  I  said  so,  and  I  meant  it !  "  Maurice  Raith 
reiterated,  thrusting  his  hand  out  with  a  quick  sponta- 
neous action. 

But  Flower-o'-the-Corn  withheld  hers  as  if  she  had 
not  seen. 

"  It  is  gracious  of  you,"  she  said,  stiffly,  and  with  a 
chill  feeling  about  her  face,  "  but  that  which  I  did  for  you, 
I  would  have  done  for  your  carter-lad.  And,  indeed,  I  see 
not  what  you  can  ever  do  for  me,  unless  " — (a  spice  of 
malice,  perhaps  transmitted  from  Yvette  Foy,  shot 
athwart  her  speech) — "  unless,  perchance,  I  should  hap- 
pen to  have  some  goods  to  transport  betwixt  the  towns 
of  Roche-a-Bayard  and  Hoo  !  " 

Maurice  stood  cold-stricken,  faint,  not  knowing  what 
to  make  of  the  girl's  words.  Was  it  information  or  a 
guess  ?  Clearly,  at  least,  she  did  not  believe  that  he  was 
a  plain  wagoner  of  Brabant. 

"  Madame,"  he  replied — for  he  had  sufificient  profes- 
sional readiness  not  to  be  taken  wholly  at  a  disadvantage 
— "if  it  should  ever  be  my  good  fortune  to  return  to 
my  native  land,  be  assured  that  I  shall  be  honored  to 
perform  your  behests,  not  only  between  Roche-a-Bayard 
and  Hoo,  but  also  between  Hoo  and  Roche-a-Bayard — 
and  to  the  world's  end !  " 

He  lifted  his  hat  loftily,  with  a  carriage  and  air  that  of 
a  certainty  were  never  those  of  Pierre  Dubois.  He 
would  have  departed  straightway,  but  something  in  the 
girl's  manner  held  him  back. 

"  Stav,"  she  said,  and  hesitated  for  a  word ;  "  I  do  not 


1 22        FLOWER-O^THE-CORN 

wish  to  part  from  you  believing  that  a  man  like  you  is 
a  traitor  and  a  scoundrel.  Are  you  or  are  you  not  the 
man  you  seem?  " 

The  color  went  wholly  out  of  the  young  man's  face. 
His  lips  grew  ashen  pale.  He  tried  to  find  words  to 
answer  her,  but  they  withdrew  from  him.  The  girl  was 
right.  He  was  not  the  thing  he  seemed.  Yet  he  had 
no  right  to  admit  her  to  his  General's  confidence  (which 
was  now  also  Jean  Cavalier's  confidence) — or,  at  least, 
not  yet. 

Flower-o'-the-Corn  waited  while  one  might  have 
counted  a  score  for  Maurice  to  speak.  Then  she  heaved 
the  least  little  sigh. 

"  It  is  enough,"  she  said ;  "  except  for  your  own  si- 
lence, I  would  not  have  believed  it.  Now  I  know !  Let 
me  pass ! " 

And  without  a  smile  or  the  least  glance  of  farewell, 
Frances  Wellwood  passed  up  the  worn  stone  stairs  with 
some  of  the  grim  determination  of  her  covenanting  father 
evident  on  her  face.  Yet  all  the  while  her  heart  was 
calling  on  her  to  return  and  say  something  to  take  the 
edge  off  her  sharp  speech.  But  her  lips  firmed  one  upon 
the  other  as  she  muttered,  "  A  spy — a  French  spy !  One 
who  would  deliver  up  my  father  to  death  !  " 

She  meditated  a  long  time,  the  thread  of  a  remem- 
brance running  keen  and  vivid  through  her  thoughts. 

Where  had  she  seen  that  uniform  before?  Like  a 
bar  of  sunlight  falling  across  the  dark  sea  came  the 
answer.  On  the  waste  sand  dunes,  wide,  far-blowing, 
hollow-hearted  between  Campthout  and  Lilloo,  where 
for  three  days  the  French  army  had  been  drawn  out  as 
in  review  order,  complete  to  the  last  shoe-buckle,  while 
hour  after  hour  within  the  tent  of  Marlborough,  the 
great  commander  strove  in  vain  to  bring  the  beaten 
Dutch  and  the  halting  Badeners  to  the  point  of  an  at- 
tack. 

The  Maisori  Rouge!  That  was  what  she  had  seen — 
the  uniform  of  the  inn  stable  was  that  of  an  officer  of  the 


THE    MAISON    ROUGE         123 

French  horse  grenadiers,  the  famous  "  Red  House  "  of 
the  King. 

At  the  same  moment  there  came  a  sudden  resolution 
into  the  breast  of  Maurice  Raith.  He  had  been  enough 
tossed  hither  and  thither,  enough  flouted  and  held  at 
naught  by  this  girl  and  that.  He  was  sick  of  it  all.  The 
memory  bit  like  the  gnawing  gangrene  of  an  old  wound, 
restlessly,  sleeplessly  at  his  heart. 

He  would  not  longer  submit.  He  would  follow  the 
girl  and  clear  himself  in  her  eyes.  He  turned  at  the 
word  and  went  up  the  stairs  of  the  tower  chamber  three 
at  a  time. 

But  he  had  waited  overlong.  The  quick  hght  foot- 
steps fled  higher  and  higher.  A  heavy  door  clanged, 
almost  in  his  face.  He  bit  his  lip,  and  in  his  turn 
rapped  loudly  on  the  panels.  Maurice  Raith  had  little 
enough  idea  what  he  would  ask  for  when  the  door 
opened.  He  was  only  acutely  conscious  that  no  longer 
would  he,  the  sometime  aid  and  confidential  messenger 
of  my  Lord  Marlborough,  be  made  a  clown  and  a  laugh- 
ing-stock of  by  any  maiden  living. 

The  door  swung  back  on  slow  creaking  hinges.  Mau- 
rice found  himself  fronted  by  the  tall  majestic  presence 
of  the  late  chaplain  of  Ardmillan's  regiment,  who  held 
out  his  hand  and  greeted  him  affectionately. 

"  Ah,"  he  exclaimed,  before  the  young  man  had  time 
to  speak,  "  you  have  come  to  consult  me.  It  ran  in  my 
mind  that  you  would.  I  judged  from  your  not  rare  wait- 
ings upon  the  means  of  grace  that  you  were  anxious  for 
your  soul's  safety.  But  still  there  is  balm  in  Gilead.  If 
you  have  brought  to  these  poor  folk  of  the  Cevennes 
sharp  swords  and  the  armament  of  war,  it  may  chance 
that  we  shall  give  you  in  return  bread  to  eat — yea,  bread 
that  the  world  wotteth  not  of.  Come  thy  ways  in,  lad. 
I  would  speak  with  you !  " 

And  Maurice  went  in  very  gladly.  For  he  thought 
within  him  that  he  would  see  Frances.  But  that  wise 
maid,  much  alive  to  his  intent,  only  listened  without  the 


1 24        FLOWER-O'-THE-CORN 

door  to  his  converse  with  her  father — which,  to  do  Pat- 
rick Wellwood  justice,  was  of  the  gravest  sort,  and  was 
listened  to  with  increasing  unwiUingness  on  Maurice 
Raith's  part. 

Yet  there  shot  a  pang  through  her  heart  while  she 
listened — not  for  the  listening  itself  (for  no  woman  in 
any  intimate  or  personal  case  thinks  the  worse  of  herself 
for  submitting  to  a  necessity  like  that) — but  because  there 
was  something  kindly  and  boyish  about  the  young  man's 
voice,  and  because  she  knew  that  he  desired  so  sorely 
to  have  converse  with  herself  instead  of  with  her  father. 

"  Be  not  deceived,  sir,"  said  the  old  man,  "  not  by 
the  best  deeds  possible  to  m.an  in  this  world,  can  he  win 
one  atom  of  favor  in  the  next." 

"  Right  happy  should  I  be,"  said  the  young  man,  so- 
berly smiling  in  his  host's  face,  "  if  my  good  deeds  could 
win  me  one  or  two  things  which  I  desire  in  this  under- 
world." 

"  Ah,  yes,"  said  the  old  pastor,  shaking  his  white 
locks,  not  intolerantly,  "  the  favor  of  some  maiden,  or 
such  like,  far  in  the  North.  Have  I  not  also  been  young? 
And  do  not  I  know  the  hearts  of  the  young?  " 

It  seemed  to  Maurice  Raith  that  here  was  his  chance. 
Should  he  declare  his  feelings  or  no?  The  moment 
passed.  There  was  a  clang  without,  the  patter  of  feet, 
a  hush,  and  then  a  rustle. 

"  It  is  Cavalier,"  said  the  old  man,  with  a  keen  pleas- 
ure on  his  face.  "  Jean  Cavalier,  who  is  to  me  as  the 
son  of  mine  old  age !  " 

Then  rage  and  mortification  took  hold  upon  Maurice 
Raith.  Had  he  not  heard  and  interpreted — that  is,  mis- 
interpreted, as  those  too  keen  on  circumstantial  evidence 
usually  do?  It  was  not  the  patter  of  Flower-o'-the- 
Corn's  little  feet  to  the  outer  door  to  which  he  had  lis- 
tened. It  was  not  the  whispered  colloquy  of  lovers — 
standing  a  moment  behind  it — intent  upon  each  other, 
after  the  latch  had  been  closed  with  care,  which  made 
the  little  waiting  hush. 


THE    MAISON    ROUGE         125 

That  listeners  hear  no  good  of  themselves  is  generally 
a  true  and  proven  saying;  and  it  applies  also  to  Hsteners 
who  strive  to  interpret  too  personally  the  simple  things 
of  life  which  environ  us.  When  once  we  set  to  watching 
each  other  suspiciously,  each  act,  however  simple  and 
ordinary,  becomes  fraught  with  deadliest  significance. 
A  penny  given  to  a  passing  beggar  assumes  the  air  of 
a  bribe.  A  twisted  spill  of  paper  half-burned,  with  a 
tailor's  invitation  to  settle  his  half-yearly  account,  be- 
comes suggestive  of  debts  that  can  only  be  arranged 
by  means  of  the  bankruptcy  court,  or  the  sign-manual 
of  a  lady  asking  for  the  usual  charity  to  her  seven  help- 
less orphans  is  fraught  with  suggestion  too  criminal  for 
mere  words. 

What  Maurice  Raith  actually  heard  in  the  little  tower 
over  the  western  gate  in  the  village  of  La  Cavalerie 
was  the  hurried  rush  of  a  certain  young  woman,  not 
altogether  superior  to  the  weaknesses  of  her  sex,  to  the 
door  of  the  turret  chamber  which  held  her  bedroom,  her 
pause  for  breath  in  the  safe  darkness  of  the  stairway,  and 
then  the  further  waiting,  finger  on  lip,  for  the  entrance 
of  the  visitor. 

A  day  or  two  before  Jean  Cavalier  might  also  have  had 
his  illusions.  But  now  his  mind  was  busy  with  other 
things.  He  entered  briskly,  according  to  his  custom, 
humming  a  cheerful  psalm.  The  old  man  took  his 
hand  and  led  him  within,  where,  on  the  great  oak  settle, 
he  took  his  seat  with  the  aplomb  and  assurance  of  a 
favored  guest  of  the  house. 

Maurice  Raith  could  scarcely  contain  himself  for  an- 
ger. He  it  was  who  had  seen  her  first.  She  was  of  his 
nation,  of  his  religion,  of  his  kin  almost.  Were  not  all 
Scots  in  the  armies  of  the  Low  Countries  as  brothers  and 
sisters? 

But  this  last  was  an  argument  which  for  the  time  being 
he  could  not  advance.  What  had  Pierre  the  Wagoner 
to  do  with  Ardmillan's  regiment  or  with  the  Scots  Dutch 
who  had  stood  by  William  at  Steinkirk  ? 


126        FLOWER-O'-THE-CORN 

"  This  is  the  young  man  sent  to  us  by  our  brethren 
in  the  North,"  said  the  old  man ;  "  he  who  brought  us 
the  weapons  of  war  and  the  tidings  of  good  cheer.  Yet 
I  would  not  that  he  should  go  from  among  us  empty 
of  hand.  For  iron  I  would  give  him  gold — yea,  even  the 
gold  of  Ophir,  that  his  soul  may  be  filled  with  tidings  ol 
great  joy." 

And  with  his  continual  bright  smile  Jean  Cavalier  held 
out  his  hand.  There  was  something  invincibly  winning 
about  the  young  man — perhaps  even  more  for  men  than 
women.  Though,  indeed,  thinking  himself  secure  from 
the  influence  of  women  he  was  really  weakest  on  that 
side.  So  he  sat  there  securely  counting  even  Flower- 
o'-the-Corn  but  a  little  maid  by  the  wayside,  to  be  smiled 
upon  as  he  should  pass  by. 

But  Flower-o'-the-Corn  herself  thought  otherwise ; 
for  as  soon  as  the  young  soldier  was  securely  within  she 
entered  easily,  as  if  by  the  merest  accident. 

"  Ah,  you  have  come  to  see  me !  "  she  cried,  with  a 
little  clap  of  her  hands  together,  and  without  the  least 
thought  of  Maurice,  or  what  his  feelings  on  the  subject 
might  be.  The  young  man  ground  his  teeth,  and  mut- 
tered bitterly  of  the  inconstancy  of  women — concerning 
which,  on  the  present  occasion,  he  had  not  the  slightest 
right  to  make  any  remark. 

But  Maurice  Raith  had  suddenly  grown  so  fiercely 
jealous,  that  had  an  angel  from  heaven  come  down  to 
reassure  him,  he  would  have  turned  upon  the  intruder 
with  the  remark  that  he  for  one  knew  better,  and  was 
not  to  be  hoodwinked. 

"  Ah,  Dubois,"  said  the  young  man,  carelessly,  "you 
here,  are  you?  For  my  part  I  came  in  only  to  pass  the 
time  till  you  were  due  to  arrive  at  my  rooms  on  the  other 
side  of  the  tower-gateway." 

"  Aye  ?  "  said  Maurice,  fiercely,  "  so  much  was  in  my 
own  thought  also  !  " 

Cavalier  glanced  momentarily  across  at  the  Scot. 
But,  though  conscious  that  he  was  in  some  degree  ruf- 


THE    MAISON    ROUGE         127 

fled,  the  young  Camisard  never  for  a  moment  supposed 
any  connection  between  his  agitation  and  himself,  calmly 
continuing  his  talk  with  the  old  pastor,  while  Flower- 
o'-the-Corn  ascended  again  to  her  own  chamber. 

"  Presently,  then,  presently,"  he  said,  nodding  and 
smiling  to  Maurice  with  such  unconscious  graciousness 
of  charm  that  Maurice,  if  he  had  not  heard  the  light 
flying  footsteps  and  diagnosed  (how  wrongfully  we 
know!)  the  hushful  pause,  could  have  found  it  in  his 
heart  to  forgive  him.  As  it  was,  he  only  sat  sulky,  fin- 
gering his  hat  and  wishing  himself  well  out  of  it. 

But  there  was  no  undue  haste  about  Jean  Cavalier. 
Small  wonder,  thought  the  suspicious  Maurice.  "  In 
a  little  while  he  will  make  his  excuse  to  go,  and  there,  in 
the  dim-lit  passage,  at  the  stair-head,  in  the  obscure  of 
the  landing,  she  will  meet  him — I  know  the  ways  of 
such."  (He  did  not  say  how  he  knew,  nor  yet  why  his 
knowledge  gave  him  the  right  of  criticism  upon  others.) 
Nevertheless,  Maurice,  listening  in  the  intervals  of  talk 
to  the  ripples  of  sound,  half  silent  and  half  audible,  the 
shiverings  which  come  and  go  through  every  empty 
house,  heard  in  imagination  Frances  Wellwood  open  the 
door  of  her  chamber,  descend  on  tiptoe,  and  stand_  await- 
ing in  the  quivering  dusk — for  whom?  For  this  rival 
of  course,  whom  the  hosteller's  wench  had  called  the 
baker's  boy  of  Geneva. 

So  he  thought,  and  so  he  would  have  taken  his  oath. 
Yet  all  the  while  (so  deceptive  is  the  habit  of  suspicion) 
Frances  was  in  her  chamber,  the  stifT  creaking  door  un- 
opened, looking  out  of  the  small-paned  window  at  the 
clear  sparkling  stars.  She  had  not  moved,  and  all  the 
to-and-fro,  the  rustle  and  bustle,  the  subtlety  and  stealth, 
existed  wholly  in  the  imagination  of  Maurice  Raith. 
Which  shows,  among  other  things,  that  the  young  man 
was  thinking  more  about  our  Flowcr-o'-the-Corn  than 
was  exactly  good  for  him. 

He  awoke  to  find  himself  being  addressed  by  the  pas- 
tor. The  chaplain  of  Ardmillan's  regiment  had  a  bottle 
of  wine  in  his  hand,  and  his  tone  was  that  of  apology. 


1 28         FLOWER-O'-THE-CORN 

"  Water,  as  I  remember,"  said  he,  '*  was  made  some 
time  before  wine,  yet  I  know  not  how  long.  And  if 
it  be  the  pleasure  or  necessity  of  you  two  young  men 
that  you  should  go  forth  into  the  night,  let  it  not  be  said 
that  you  went  without  such  hospitality  as  may  be  shown 
you  by  Patrick  Wellwood.  Thrice  I  have  called  my 
daughter,  but  I  fear  that  sleep  hath  fallen  upon  her 
young  eyelids,  inasmuch  as  she  hath  not  answered.  So 
I  must  e'en  be  mine  own  drawer  and  setter  out  of  drink 
and  victual !  " 

And  with  that  the  minister  betook  himself  with  grave 
and  suitable  dignity  to  the  corner-cupboard,  whence  he 
was  bringing  out  the  silver  trays  and  glasses,  wiping 
them  with  a  clean  white  napkin  and  setting  everything 
in  order,  when,  aroused  by  the  unwonted  clinking,  and 
perhaps  with  an  ear  attuned  to  what  was  going  on  un- 
derneath, Flower-o'-the-Corn  for  the  second  time  came 
swiftly  clattering  down  the  stairs,  with  the  sharp  clack- 
ing noise  which  her  heels  always  made  upon  the  stone 
steps,  as  is  indeed  customary  with  maids  of  quick  ner- 
vous tempers  when  they  are  in  haste.  She  burst  in  upon 
them  without  warning,  all  three  of  them  at  gaze  open- 
mouthed  upon  her,  her  father  with  the  uncorked  bottle 
in  his  hand. 

"Father!"  she  cried,  "oh,  how  wicked  you  can  be! 
Did  not  I  tell  you  that  you  were  never,  never  to  touch 
these  glasses  ?  You  know  that  the  last  time  you  broke 
four,  besides  those  which  rolled  upon  the  floor !  " 

And  at  the  rebuke  her  father  hung  his  head  shame- 
facedly. 

"  'Tis  true,  'tis  but  too  true,  Frances,"  he  said.  "  I 
own  it.  It  was  my  fault.  But  indeed,  I  thought  within 
me  that  you  were  gone  to  bed.  For  I  called  thrice  and 
you  answered  not !  " 

"  I  was — "  she  began,  but  did  not  continue.  For  it 
had  not  come  to  this  of  it  yet  with  Frances  Wellwood, 
that  in  anything  she  could  speak  the  thing  which  was 
not,  to  her  father. 


THE    MAISON    ROUGE         129 

Then  while  she  set  before  the  youths  the  limited  and 
austere  hospitality  of  the  Tower  on  the  Wall,  Patrick 
Wellwood  discoursed  at  large  upon  the  virtues  of  early 
rising  and  simplicity. 

"  Young  men,"  he  said,  "  I  beseech  you,  mortify  your 
members  while  ye  are  upon  the  earth.  Be  ever  birds  of 
the  morning !  Rise  and  see  the  sun  color  the  sky,  ere 
yet  his  bed-clothes  are  well  off.  Early  rising  is  as  good 
for  the  grace  of  God,  as  it  hath  been  held  to  be  for  the 
cultivation  of  the  Muses.  The  slothful  slug-a-bed  is  the 
one  sinner  for  whom  even  God  hath  no  compassion. 
So,  young  men,  in  a  little  the  rose  of  the  morning  will 
be  fairer  to  you  than  the  sleep-bloom  mantling  upon 
your  sweetheart's  cheek,  and  the  freshness  of  the  air 
than  the  wine  that  gives  his  right  color  in  the  cup.  Gen- 
tlemen, I  offer  you  a  little  simple  country  refreshment. 
It  will  neither  make  nor  mar  you  at  this  time  of  night. 
For  the  product  of  this  land  in  the  matter  of  vintages  is 
such  as  makes  for  wholesome  abstinence.  I  might  give 
as  much  to  my  daughter's  canary  bird  with  the  expecta- 
tion of  finding  him  upon  his  perch  in  the  morning.  But, 
since  you  are  in  haste,  drink  your  draught  and  be  gone, 
like  men  who  have  only  so  many  posts  to  travel  along 
life's  way,  and  but  small  time  to  dismount  at  each." 

Flower-o'-the-Corn  smiled  and  filled  the  glasses  to 
the  brim.  Then  she  presented  one  to  Maurice  first,  as 
to  the  greater  stranger  in  the  house,  and  afterward  a 
second  to  Jean  Cavalier. 

"  Do  not  heed  my  father,"  she  said,  "  his  words  are 
more  inhospitable  than  his  heart.  But  he  cares  not  for 
anything  save  that  he  may  draw  a  lesson  from  it,  I  can- 
not so  much  as  blow  my  nose  in  winter  weather  but  that 
he  deduces  from  that  the  shortness  of  time,  and  that  I 
had  better  have  been  preparing  for  eternity." 

"  Frances,  Frances,"  said  her  father,  reproachfully, 
"  pray  have  a  care.  Remember  that  for  every  idle  word 
that  man  shall  speak,  he  shall  give  an  account." 

"  Dear  old  wingless  cherub,"  cried  Frances,  clasping 


1 30        FLOWER-O'-THE-CORN 

him  about  the  neck,  "it  says  ■man,'  doesn't  it?  Well, 
I  am  only  a  girl.  The  Recording  Angel,  if  he  knows  his 
work,  will  never  mend  his  pen  for  aught  that  such  a 
featherhead  as  I  may  say !  " 

The  old  minister  shook  his  head  in  reproof,  but,  nev- 
ertheless, gazed  adoringly  at  his  daughter.  If  the  name 
of  the  Recording  Angel  had  been  either  Patrick  Well- 
wood  or  Maurice  Raith,  there  is  no  doubt  that  many  of 
our  Flower-o"-the-Corn's  misdemeanors  would  have  been 
disgracefully  slurred  over. 

"  But  as  to  noses,"  continued  the  small  rebel,  "  I  hold 
the  Catholic  doctrine — that  the  means  of  grace,  to  be 
efficacious,  must  be  frequently  applied !  " 

"  Frances,"  said  the  old  man,  somewhat  more  sternly, 
"  have  I  not  told  you  aforetime  that  it  is  ill-done  of  you 
to  let  your  tongue  thus  run  away  with  you  ?  And  what 
will  these  young  folk  think  of  you  and  your  upbringing? 
I  bid  you  think  shame  of  your  light  words !  " 

Yet  it  was  evident  enough  what  one  at  least  of  these 
young  folk  thought.  For,  as  for  Maurice  Raith,  he 
hardly  took  his  eyes  ofif  the  saucy  face  of  Flower-o'-the- 
Corn,  while  even  the  more  self-contained  Prophet  Jean 
Cavalier  sipped  his  glass  and  looked  over  it  at  the  girl 
with  a  marvelling  air. 

Yet  even  as  he  looked  he  silently  rebuked  himself, 
not  knowing  how  much  more  deadly  was  the  snare 
which  should  one  day  take  him. 

"  The  Lust  of  the  Eye !  The  Lust  of  the  Eye !  "  he 
murmured.  And  then  in  a  louder  tone,  "  Well,  Master 
Pierre  Dubois,  you  and  I  have  infinite  business  together, 
and  it  is  high  time  that  we  began  it,  if  we  mean  to  finish 
in  time  to  see  the  morning  sun  shine  over  the  Causse 
Noir  yonder — which  to  do,  as  our  old  pastor  here  tells 
us,  is  the  straight  way  of  salvation." 

"  Nay,  that  said  I  not,"  cried  Mr.  Patrick  Wellwood, 
shaking  his  head  and  smiling  well  enough  pleased; 
"  you  are  as  bad  as  Frances,  twisting  the  word  of  my 
mouth.     I  said  not  that  to  rise  early  is  the  way  of  sal- 


THE    MAISON    ROUGE  131 

vation,  but  only  that,  other  things  being  equal,  early 
rising  may  be  made  a  means  of  grace — or  so,  at  least,  I 
have  found  it !  " 

"  Father,"  said  his  daughter,  looking  up  at  him  with 
mock  meekness,  "it  is,  as  I  judge,  your  only  grievous 
sin,  though  hitherto  I  have  not  dared  to  tell  you  of  it. 
It  keeps  you  so  pufifed  up  with  self-righteousness  all  day, 
that  you  are  perfectly  unapproachable  unless  one  is 
armed  to  the  teeth !  You  have  no  idea,"  she  added, 
turning  to  the  young  men,  "  what  I  have  to  reckon  with 
when  he  takes  a  turn  of  getting  up  before  the  sun.  If 
I  am  five  minutes  after  him,  I  am  even  as  a  stranger  and 
a  castaway." 

"  Listen  to  her!  "  said  Patrick,  chuckling  to  himself. 

"  Aye,  Hsten !  "  cried  his  daughter,  continuing  her  nar- 
ration; "listen  and  perpend.  If  it  be  a  clear  morning 
he  rises  (as  he  avers)  '  to  walk  under  the  unblemished 
eye  of  the  day.'  I  say  that  is  well.  I  will  do  likewise. 
I  love  to  be  astir  betimes  on  clear  sunny  morns — at  least 
then  the  exercise  savors  less  of  a  penance.  But  when 
it  is  black  and  threatens  storm  he  will  threep  down  my 
throat  that  it  is  even  sweeter  and  pleasanter  so — for  then 
'  it  is  fronting  the  cloudy  brows  of  Providence,'  which  is 
a  most  estimable  and  wholesome  exercise.  Moreover, 
he  will  not  be  content  to  do  these  things  himself,  but 
must,  for  my  soul's  good,  have  me  up  out  of  my  warm 
bed  by  half-past  three  of  the  clock,  with  nothing  to  do 
till  eight  but  to  listen  to  the  creaking  of  his  quill  as  it 
moves  across  the  foolscap,  registering  the  mighty 
thoughts  which  are  aroused  within  him  by  getting  up  at 
unholy  hours  of  the  morning!  " 

"  It  seemeth  to  me  wonderful  and  miraculous,"  said 
Patrick  Wellwood,  weightily,  "  that  I  should  have  begot 
and  reared  a  girl  like  this,  who  will  thus  persist  in  belying 
and  misrepresenting  the  course  of  my  actions  to  herward. 
But  there  is  in  my  country  a  good  proverb,  though,  I 
believe,  without  Scriptural  warrant  of  the  exact  sort, 
'  Whoso  speaketh  against  father  or  mother,  the  corbies 
shall  pyke  out  his  eyes! '  " 


1 32        FLOWER-O'-THE-CORN 

"  Well,  father,"  said  the  girl,  "  I  am  an  arrant  Socin- 
ian  where  my  eyes  are  concerned.  I  deny  everything. 
I  must  see  that  in  the  original  Hebrew  before  I  can 
accept  it.  And,  moreover,  it  is  true  enough  about  your 
getting  up  in  the  morning.  You  know,  as  well  as  I 
do,  that  it  makes  you  shamefully  upsetting  all  the  day. 
There  is,  indeed,  no  living  with  him,  gentlemen,  except 
as  the  snail  may  with  the  gardener — by  keeping  well 
out  of  his  way !  " 


XV 

THE    HOUR    BEFORE    THE    DAWN 

SEEING  that  no  more  was  to  be  gained  by  remain- 
ing in  the  western  gatehouse  of  the  town  of  La 
Cavalerie,  and  that,  as  the  young  Camisard  leader 
had  said,  the  time  had  come  for  their  departure,  Maurice 
rose  sulkily,  and  with  the  briefest  salutation  to  the  pas- 
tor and  his  daughter  made  his  way  directly  downstairs, 
resolved  that  if  there  was  to  be  any  hole-and-cornering 
in  the  lee  of  half-open  doors,  he  would  not  be  the  man  to 
spoil  sport. 

But  all  unconsciously  Cavalier  countered  him,  and 
with  a  parting  salutation  as  brief,  but  far  more  gracious, 
intimated  that  since  he  had  business  with  this  gentleman 
which  would  in  no  wise  stand  over,  it  would  be  conven- 
ient for  them  to  depart  together. 

To  this  neither  of  their  entertainers  offered  any  ob- 
jections, Flower-o'-the-Corn  because  she  wished  to  get 
back  to  her  embroiderv  and  her  quiet  thoughts  in  the 
corner  by  the  lamp,  her  father  because  on  cold  nights, 
when  the  wind  swept  the  streets  bare  as  a  bone,  and  the 
first  white  snowflakes  swirled  in  the  blackness  of  the 
blind  alleys,  it  was  the  chiefest  of  his  pleasures  to  sit  in 
the  chimney-corner  with  "  Lex  Rex,"  "  Naphtali,"  or 
(most  precious  book)  Knox's  "  History  of  the  Kirk  of 
Scotland,"  in  its  earliest  and  only  genuine  edition. 

Then  the  good  old  man.  hid  away  from  the  outer  chill, 
forgot  the  danger  of  his  journeyings,  the  small  rewards 
and  perilous  'scapes  of  his  vocation.  A  sense,  almost 
gladsome,  of  comfort  awoke  in  him,  of  clear-burning 
logs  and  the  swept  hearth.     His  great  brown  eyes  di- 

133 


1 34        FLOWER-O'-THE-CORN 

lated  with  a  soft  happiness  almost  Hke  that  of  a  girl  lis- 
tening to  a  favored  sweetheart — or,  more  exactly,  he 
touched  the  volume  on  his  knee  as  a  young  mother 
might  caress  her  first-born  babe. 

To  each  of  the  young  men  Flower-o'-the-Corn  ten- 
dered her  hand  with  the  same  swift  upward  glance,  un- 
troubled and  tender  as  the  dawning  of  a  June  day.  Per- 
haps (and  if  there  had  been  any  chronometer  beating 
fractions  of  seconds  in  the  company)  it  might  have  been 
observed  that  she  withdrew  her  hand  a  trifle  the  more 
quickly  from  that  of  Maurice  Raith.  From  which  a  man 
would  have  deduced  one  thing  and  a  woman  another. 

The  woman,  of  course,  would  have  been  in  the  right. 
For  what  a  girl  will  do  "  afore  folk  "  and  what  when 
"  left  to  the  freedom  of  her  own  will  "  are,  catechisti- 
cally  and  actually,  very  different  things  indeed. 

The  two  young  men  sallied  out  into  the  night — the 
keen  silent  magnitude  of  the  overreaching  heavens  re- 
ceiving them,  and  the  sharp  effectual  chill  of  the  high 
Gausses  in  the  bite  of  the  air.  It  smelt  of  snow — the 
snow  which  comes  so  early  up  there.  For  in  the  valley 
of  the  Dourbie  the  grapes  have  not  yet  done  hanging 
black  upon  the  trellises  when  the  good  wives  of  La  Ca- 
valerie  are  busily  sweeping  the  white  wreaths  from  their 
doors. 

"You  have  the  additional  papers  with  you?"  said 
Cavalier,  carelessly,  as  they  mounted  the  staircase  of  the 
opposite  or  easternmost  tower. 

"  I  have !  "  said  Maurice,  briefly,  and  passed  them  over 
intact,  still  bearing  the  seals  which  had  been  impressed 
upon  them  by  my  Lord  Marlborough  himself. 

The  young  leader  of  the  Camisards  lit  a  lamp,  set  it 
on  the  mantelshelf,  and,  leaning  his  arm  carelessly 
against  the  stonework,  broke  the  seal  and  set  himself 
to  peruse  the  documents  within.  As  he  did  so  the 
fashion  of  his  countenance  altered.  He  frowned  more 
and  more  darkly  upon  the  written  page. 

He  looked  at  the  date  at  the  head  of  the  letter,  and 


HOUR  BEFORE  THE  DAWN      135 

then  at  a  printed  "  Reckoning  of  Days,"  done  in  Tou- 
louse, which  was  pinned  to  his  desk. 

"  You  have  been  long  upon  the  way,  sir,"  he  said, 
somewhat  brusquely,  to  Maurice  Raith. 

The  young  Scot  resented  both  the  words  and  the  tone. 

"  I  have  come  as  quickly  as  my  orders  and  the  safety 
of  the  service  admitted,"  he  answered,  haughtily.  "  For 
that  and  the  rest  I  am  answerable  to  my  superior  oflfi- 
cer !  " 

"  I  beg  your  pardon,"  answered  Jean  Cavalier,  the 
fresh  boyishness  clean  gone  out  of  his  face,  "  but  the 
dates !  Do  you  know  that  we  of  the  Cevennes  are  to 
make  arrangements  to  meet  a  squadron  of  British  ships, 
cruising  upon  the  Mediterranean  coast,  and  from  them 
receive  fvirther  stores  of  provisions  and  armament  of 
war?" 

"  And  what  of  that?  "  said  Maurice  Raith,  scarcely  yet 
appeased. 

"  Well,"  answered  the  young  Camisard,  gravely,  "  we 
have  but  three  days  left  to  do  it  in,  that  is  all !  " 

He  threw  the  paper  upon  the  table,  and,  leaning  his 
head  upon  his  hand,  stood  considering.  Maurice 
glanced  involuntarily  at  the  writing,  which  was,  of 
course,  perfectly  familiar  to  him.  It  was  even  as  the 
young  man  had  said.  So  many  days  the  allied  fleet 
would  cruise  ofT  the  coast  east  of  Cette.  If  no  com- 
munication was  effected  during  this  period,  it  would  be 
understood  by  those  in  command  that  the  landing  was 
impossible,  and  the  squadron  would  return  whence  it 
came. 

There  remained  just  the  three  c'ays  and  no  more. 

"  I  knew  nothing  of  this,"  Maurice  said,  remorseful 
that  he  had  not  delivered  all  his  papers  upon  the  pre- 
vious night;  "you  will  remember  that  I  am  a  stranger 
among  you,  and  knew  not  definitely  to  whom  I  ought 
to  deliver  my  papers.  Further  than  that  I  have  nothing 
to  reproach  myself  with.  I  came  with  all  imaginable 
haste  through  an  entirely  hostile  country " 


1 36        FLOWER-O'-THE-CORN 

The  young  Camisard  waved  his  hand. 

*'  I  know,  I  know,"  he  said,  "  the  fault  does  not  lie 
with  you,  but  in  the  difficulty  of  the  country  through 
which  you  have  had  to  come — from  the  North  to  the 
South  of  France  with  King's  men  a-swarm  at  every 
league.     'Tis  no  jesting  matter." 

But  through  the  kindly  consideration  of  his  words 
Maurice  noted  the  deep  cogitation  of  his  bearing.  He 
knew  the  signs,  and  could  not  help  being  reminded  by 
this  peasant  boy  of  the  first  General  of  his  age  when  he 
had  an  important  problem  to  study,  or  an  irrevocable 
decision  to  take.  Both  Marlborough  and  Jean  Cavalier 
had  the  same  hurried  walk  to  and  fro — the  same  knitted 
brows,  the  same  deep  vertical  spade-cut  between  the 
brows,  which  is  the  cast-mark  of  men  of  thought  and 
action  all  the  world  over. 

In  five  minutes  Jean  Cavalier  had  made  his  plans,  cast 
the  lots,  and  there  remained  nothing  save  to  carry  out 
his  decisions. 

"  You  will  give  me  your  note  of  hand,"  he  said,  ad- 
dressing Maurice  Raith,  "  stating  the  day  and  hour  at 
which  these  instructions  were  delivered  to  me.  You  will 
remain  here  with  a  sufficient  garrison  in  charge  of  the 
town.  They  will  accept  you  as  my  lieutenant  upon  my 
bare  word.  I  will  take  the  Genevan  pastor  with  me  to 
interpret,  and  with  two  hundred  mounted  men  strike 
southward  to  the  Gardiole  above  Frontignan,  whence 
with  a  glass  one  may. read  the  sea  for  twenty  miles  all 
about,  clear  as  it  were  a  printed  book." 

"  And  when  do  you  start  ?  "  said  Maurice,  wild  hopes 
working  like  yeast  within  him. 

"  Now,"  said  Cavalier,  his  lips  compressed  to  a  mere 
line,  and  his  eyes  gray  and  far  away,  "  now — get  your 
weapons  and  be  ready  to  take  over  the  command  of  La 
Cavalerie  in  half  an  hour.  I  leave  Catinat  with  you. 
He  is  brave  and  stupid,  but  will  obey  you  to  the  last 
breath  of  his  body.  But  you  must  not  mind  his  talk, 
or  you  will  be  deafened." 


HOUR  BEFORE  THE  DAWN      137 

The  next  moment  there  was  the  hurried  fall  of  foot- 
steps upon  the  stair.  Jean  Cavalier  was  gone.  Three 
days  to  reach  the  point  designated  by  Marlborough  were 
quite  enough  had  the  road  been  clear.  But  at  that  mo- 
ment, who  knew? 

The  two  hundred  Camisards  might  run  into  an  entire 
division  of  royal  troops.  Yet  for  the  time  being  this 
did  not  trouble  either  Cavalier  or  that  young  aide-de- 
camp of  Marlborough's,  who  was  learning  to  be  proud 
of  being  named  lieutenant  by  the  baker's  boy  of  Geneva. 
He  went  across  the  sleeping  village  to  the  northern  gate, 
where  the  watch,  kept  awake  and  alert  by  the  zeal  of 
Cavalier,  swung  a  lantern  in  his  face  and  demanded  his 
name  and  business. 

Then  a  trumpet  blew — three  or  four  stirring  notes  re- 
peated thrice  over.  No  more.  And  instantly  windows 
were  thrown  open  everywhere.  Men  came  tumbling 
out  upon  the  street.  There  was  a  glitter  of  arms,  the 
padding  of  many  feet,  from  opened  ground-floor  doors 
a  stamping  of  the  iron-shod  hoofs  of  horses. 

"  A  raid  !  "  said  some.  "  The  enemy  upon  us !  "  cried 
others. 

"  'Tis  only  to  prove  us — he  is  always  at  his  tricks,  this 
baker's  boy,"  growled  a  third,  of  the  strictest  sect  of  the 
Pharisees. 

But  the  trumpet  rang  out  again,  full  and  round  and 
clear. 

"  Mounted  men  and  in  haste ! — The  enemy  must  be 
hot  upon  us !  "  was  now  the  only  word.  And  instantly 
there  arose  the  sound  of  a  mighty  trampling  in  all  the 
stables  of  the  town,  and  especially  in  those  of  Martin 
Foy,  whither  the  newly-appointed  commandant  of  La 
Cavalerie  had  gone  to  obtain  the  w^eapons  which  he  had 
left  in  the  care  of  Billy  Marshall  and  his  spouse. 

For  many  reasons  it  had  been  in  the  mind  of  Maurice 
to  resume  his  proper  uniform  of  British  officer.  He 
told  himself  that  this  would  be  the  proper  course,  as 
marking  the  right  he  had  to  give  orders,  and  the  sup- 


138 


FLOWER-O'-THE-CORN 


port  which  was  being  extended  to  the  rebel  mountain- 
eers by  the  alHed  powers.  Really,  however,  his  reasons 
were  quite  different  and  much  simpler.  On  the  other 
hand,  it  occurred  to  him,  first,  that  he  had  no  orders  from 
my  Lord  Marlborough  for  any  such  display ;  secondly, 
that  the  fact  of  a  British  officer  in  uniform  being  in  the 
camp  of  the  Camisards  would  spread  like  wildfire 
through  all  France,  and  make  the  enemies  of  the  poor 
hill-folk  ten  times  more  bitter  than  before ;  and,  lastly, 
that  he  might  need  his  disguise  of  wagoner  to  enable 
him  to  get  out  of  the  country  when  his  mission  should 
be  finished. 

So  with  a  single,  rather  reluctant  glance  at  the  rough 
packing  of  matting  which  contained  his  staff  uniform 
(or  at  least  had  contained  it  when  the  wagons  were 
ransacked),  Maurice  Raith  received  his  sword  and  pistols 
from  the  reluctant  Billy,  who  wished  to  go  over  them 
for  the  last  time  "  wi'  the  least  bit  drap  o'  sweet  oil  an' 
a  kennin'  o'  rag." 

"  And  oh,  Capt — I  mean  maister — be  sure  that  ye 
keep  them  oot  o'  the  wat.  For  thae  wee  pemicketty 
pistols  o'  yours  are  juist  a  heartbreak  to  clean  when  the 
damp  gets  in  aboot  the  trikkers !  " 

As  Maurice  Raith  went  out,  the  one  warm  delicious 
thought  which  thrilled  him  like  wine  was  that  he  would 
be  left  in  the  defenced  village  of  La  Cavalerie  alone — 
or  as  good  as  alone — with  Frances  Wellwood.  His 
rival,  or  the  man  whom  he  had  looked  upon  as  his  rival, 
would  be  absent  upon  a  mission  which  must,  at  least, 
occupy  him  a  full  week,  her  father  also  accompanying  the 
expedition  as  interpreter. 

It  was  indeed  a  thought  to  make  the  head  swim.  She 
would  in  some  sort  be  under  his  protection.  As  the  man 
left  in  command  of  the  village  and  its  defences,  her  father 
could  not  avoid  asking  him  to  keep  an  eye  upon  the 
lonely  girl. 

The  world  seemed  suddenly  filled  with  a  sweet  scent 
of  dew-wet  wall-flower — banks  of  it,  acres  of  it,  whole 


HOUR  BEFORE  THE  DAWN      139 

farm-breadths  of  it — such  as  Alaurice  had  scented  be- 
tween Zaandam  and  Bloemendaal,  once  when  he  rode 
by  night  with  despatches  to  the  States  General  of  Hol- 
land. 

And  now,  though  he  was  on  the  bleak  edges  of  the 
high  Cevennes,  with  winter  coming  on,  and  with  no 
idea  how  he  was  to  get  clear  ofif,  the  breaths  of  summer 
orchards  and  the  home  meadows  of  Castle  Raith  seemed 
to  blow  across  him,  as  he  buckled  his  sword  and  thrust 
pistol  in  belt  before  going  out  with  a  new  and  respon- 
sible swagger  into  the  night. 

It  was  the  alarm  general  which  had  first  been  sounded. 
Then  came  the  summons  for  the  Camisard  horse  in  its 
full  strength  of  two  hundred,  to  hold  itself  ready  to  ride 
by  night  through  the  enemy's  lines,  by  dint  of  greater 
daring  and  a  local  knowledge  which  touched  the  bounds 
of  perfection. 

The  whole  force  of  the  Camisards,  in  so  far  as  they 
had  refuged  upon  the  bleak  south-looking  Gausses  of 
the  Larzac,  was  assembled  in  the  little  Grande  Place  of 
La  Cavalerie.  And  there,  under  the  moonless  splen- 
dors of  such  a  sky  as  only  reveals  itself  to  folk  who  live 
close  up  under  the  architrave  of  heaven,  Jean  Cavalier 
was  uttering  his  prophecy  to  an  assembled  multitude, 
and  the  voice  of  him,  generally  so  sweet,  personal,  and 
dulcet,  had  become  as  the  rolling  of  Sinai  thunders. 

"  Hear,  ye  folk  of  the  clear  vision,  this  has  come  to 
me  suddenly — as  the  bolt  from  the  cloud,"  he  was  saying. 
"  I  have  in  my  hands  the  words  of  the  great  Duke  him- 
self, the  commander  of  armies " 

"  Put  not  your  trust  in  princes !  "  croaked  out  Prophet 
Catinat,  suddenly. 

Cavalier  turned  on  him  instantly,  and  fixed  him  with 
eyes  that  glowed  even  in  the  darkness. 

"  Catinat,"  he  cried,  "  I  forbid  you  to  speak  again. 
Let  it  be  enough  for  you  to  obey.  I  have  heard  say  that 
your  trust  in  princes  was  so  great  that  you  got  yourself 
named  after  one  of  them — even  after  a  Marshal  of 
France.     Is  it  so,  or  is  it  not?" 


HO        FLOWER-O'-THE-CORN 

"  It  is  so !  "  said  Catinat,  hanging  his  head.  "  But  if 
I  met  him  now  I  would  have  his  life  for  his  hatred  of 
the  folk  of  God !  " 

"  Enough,"  retorted  Cavalier,  sternly,  "  I  foresaw 
your  disobedience,  and  have  arranged  that  you  should 
remain  here  while  we  of  the  quest  are  absent.  But  for 
your  soul's  good  you  shall  take  all  your  orders  from  him 
whom  you  know  as  Pierre  Dubois,  the  wagoner,  who 
brought  hither  the  message  !  " 

"  He  is  not  of  the  Spirit !  "  said  Catinat,  with  a  sullen 
heaviness  that  augured  ill  for  the  peace  of  mind  of  Mau- 
rice Raith. 

"  Let  him  be  as  Saul,  as  David,  or  as  Solomon,"  said 
Cavalier,  suddenly  spreading  out  his  hands  as  in  a  bene- 
diction over  the  assembly,  "  he  shall  bear  rule  here  in 
my  absence.  The  Spirit  hath  revealed  it  to  me!  What 
say  you.  Folk  of  the  Bond?     Is  my  word  law?  " 

And  with  a  great  voice  the  reply  came  back :  "  As 
thou,  Jean  Cavalier,  saycst,  so  say  ivc!  " 

"  And  Catinat,  shall  he  obey  as  the  Spirit  hath  said  ?  " 
continued  the  young  man,  still  with  his  arms  out- 
stretched. 

"  He  shall  obey  or  he  shall  die !  We  will  see  to  it !  " 
they  cried  as  one  man. 

And  at  the  sound  of  that  hoarse  crying,  Catinat,  old 
soldier  as  he  was,  turned  pale. 

"  At  the  same  time  I  delegate  to  this  same  Catinat, 
called  the  Prophet,  all  the  offices  and  exercises  of  re- 
ligion. In  so  much  as  I  take  the  Genevan  pastor  with 
me,  in  case  we  meet  the  English  or  others  of  our  faith, 
but  not  of  our  tongue,  Catinat  shall  stay  here  to  read, 
to  preach,  and  to  interpret  the  Gospel.  But  all  that 
concerns  the  defence  of  the  town,  the  building  and  man- 
ning of  the  walls,  the  sallying  forth  to  meet  the  enemy — 
all  that  pertains  to  the  military  and  civil  government  of 
the  town  shall  be,  till  my  return,  wholly  and  solely  in  the 
hands  of  the  young  stranger  known  as  Pierre  Dubois. 
Thus  the  Spirit  hath  directed  and  thus  it  shall  be !  " 


HOUR  BEFORE  THE  DAWN     141 

As  Maurice  stood  listening  to  the  sound  of  his  as- 
sumed name,  a  soft  voice  spoke  over  his  shoulder.  "  A 
mightily  convenient  spirit  for  any  man  to  be  familiar 
with,"  murmured  Yvette  Foy,  with  the  most  silken  satire. 
"  I  wonder  the  baker's  boy  does  not  make  his  devil  over 
to  you  during  his  absence.  It  strikes  me  that  you  may 
need  something  of  the  kind." 

"  Catinat  will  attend  to  all  that  for  me,"  said  Maurice, 
smiling  at  her  over  his  shoulder.  A  torch  or  two  had 
been  brought  from  this  house  and  that,  and  now  faintly 
illuminated  the  vast  and  silent  crowd  which  was  swayed 
by  the  mere  sound  of  Cavalier's  words. 

"  Catinat,"  murmured  the  voice  again,  scornfully, 
"  Abdias  Maurel  may  be  a  prophet,  indeed,  after  his  kind. 
But  he  is  a  man.  He  is  playing  his  own  game.  /  will 
help  you  for — for — well,  for  nothing !  " 


XVI 

CHECK! 

THUS  was  the  still  virgin  Camisard  fortress  of 
La  Cavalerie  left  in  charge  of  a  certain  Captain 
Maurice  Raith,  late  aide-de-camp  to  his  Excel- 
lency the  Duke  of  Marlborough,  presently  known  as 
Pierre  Dubois,  a  wagoner,  with  a  precarious  and  not-to- 
be-too-closely-inquired-into  connection  with  the  Flem- 
ish towns  of  Roche-a-Bayard  and  Hoo. 

Theologically,  the  Prophet  Catinat,  an  old  soldier  of 
the  earlier  Italian  wars,  drilled  the  inhabitants  with  a 
severe  prayerfulness,  much  as  he  was  used  to  exercise 
his  company  with  pike  and  musketoon.  If  they  were  to 
be  benefited  spiritually,  Catinat  meant  that  they  should 
work  for  it.  The  grim  yet  determinate  earnestness, 
combined  with  a  touch  of  sunstroke,  characteristic  of 
military  piety  (on  the  retired  list),  caused  him  to  throw 
himself — as  it  were,  broadcast  upon  the  devoted  town  of 
La  Cavalerie. 

So  long  time  he  had  and  no  longer.  This  he  realized 
to  the  full.  For  with  the  return  of  Jean  Cavalier,  all 
authority  to  whomsoever  delegated,  would  lapse.  In 
the  meantime  he  must  make  the  best  of  it. 

And  he  did.  For  in  this  matter  the  old  soldier  was 
quite  pitiless.  Why  otherwise  had  he  seen  the  bursting 
bombs,  the  sack  of  towns  ? 

There  was,  first  of  all,  morning  service  which  lasted 
two  hours  from  the  shivering  matin-chime  of  the  six 
o'clock  bell  at  the  little  Protestant  Temple.  Then  came 
a  prophetic  review  and  forecasting  (both  equally  tedious) 
at  the  hour  of  noon,  and  in  the  evening  they  had  a  re- 

142 


CHECK!  143 

chauffee  of  both  discourses,  till  the  male  inhabitants  of 
the  village  came  to  Maurice  to  beg  from  him  some  im- 
perative military  duty — if  it  were  only  the  digging  of 
trenches  or  the  transportation  of  earth. 

And  Maurice,  his  heart  full  of  pitifulness,  found  work 
willingly  for  the  poor  men.  There  was  a  certain  heap 
of  stones  which  (it  was  bruited)  saved  as  many  as  sixty 
God-fearing  Camisards  from  an  ill  death.  For  as  soon 
as  they  had  transported  these  bodily  to  the  spot  at  which 
Maurice  ordered  them  to  be  placed,  it  was  always  open 
to  him  to  bid  his  workmen  restore  the  status  qua. 

Certainly  Catinat  was  a  heavy  burden  to  any  com- 
mandant of  a  defenced  town.  Yvette  Foy  had  been  a 
true  prophet. 

It  was  the  day  after  the  departure  of  the  expedition. 
Maurice  had  taken  over  his  full  powers,  but  already  Cat- 
inat was  developing  into  a  thorn  in  the  flesh  so  unendur- 
able, that  the  military  chief  could  be  under  no  manner 
of  illusion  as  to  why  Jean  Cavalier  had  left  him  at  home. 

No  matter  what  drill  or  military  exercise  Maurice  might 
order  for  day  or  night,  Catinat  was  always  on  hand  to 
propose  that  it  should  be  prefaced  by  "  a  few  words  of 
exhortation,"  or  to  declare  that  "  the  Spirit  moved  him 
to  deliver  an  address  at  that  time  and  place." 

Yet  Maurice,  having  by  order  of  Cavalier  nothing  to 
do  with  the  religious  duties  of  the  embattled  mountain- 
eers, could  interpose  nothing.  But  he  observed  with 
sympathy  the  shudder  which  ran  through  the  ranks  as 
the  "  Prophet  of  the  Cevennes  "  settled  himself  to  his 
work. 

Still  there  were  alleviations.  Patrick  Wellwood  had 
taken  his  young  countryman  aside,  and  in  words  few 
and  chosen,  had  committed  his  daughter  to  his  care. 

"  Precious  to  me  as  the  apple  of  mine  eye,  is  this 
child,"  he  had  said ;  "  so  let  her  be  unto  you !  Without 
fear  I  leave  her  in  your  charge,  the  one  ewe  lamb  that 
hath  laid  in  an  old  man's  bosom.  According  as  you 
fulfil  my  behest,  so  may  the  blessing  of  God  Almighty 
rest  upon  you.     Thus  and  not  otherwise !  " 


144        FLOWER-O'-THE-CORN 

And  as  the  lantern  flared  upward  upon  the  pale,  thin, 
wrestling  face,  the  waving  white  hair  and  the  wandering 
casual  right  eye  of  the  preacher,  Maurice  promised  to 
be  a  faithful  friend  and  servitor. 

It  was  not  a  difficult  promise  to  perform  in  any  case. 
The  difficulty  (as  Maurice  well  knew)  would  be  to  per- 
suade the  girl  to  accept  any  favor  or  protection  at  his 
hands. 

Before  leaving,  however,  the  old  man  partially  light- 
ened his  mind. 

"  I  have  spoken  to  the  damsel  herself,"  he  said,  "  and 
as  I  understand  she  is  noneways  averse  to  considering 
herself  under  your  protection.  Ever  since  our  coming 
hither,  this  young  David  of  a  General  Cavalier  has 
proven  himself  as  a  brother  unto  her.  I  have  small 
doubt  that  thou  wilt  do  likewise !  " 

Thus  accredited,  Maurice  lost  no  time  in  presenting 
himself  at  the  western  gatehouse.  At  the  stair-foot  he 
came  suddenly  on  an  ancient  charwoman,  her  head 
wrapped  completely  about  in  a  pair  of  her  husband's 
nether  garments,  the  legs  tied  picturesquely  beneath  her 
chin. 

Maurice  was  wondering  why  such  women  all  the  world 
over,  should  have  their  heads  wrapped  up  for  tooth- 
ache— why  their  petticoats  should  always  be  ample 
enough  for  half  a  dozen  wine-vats  to  be  concealed  be- 
neath— and  why  a  smell  of  strong  waters  of  Holland 
should  encompass  them  as  with  a  garment,  when  this 
particular  specimen  of  the  breed  beckoned  to  him  mys- 
teriously. 

A  maudlin  smile  played  across  her  bloated  features, 
and  she  displayed  a  set  of  teeth  which,  like  King 
William's  line  of  battle  after  Steinkirk,  was  "  mostly 
gaps." 

"Too  late,  young  man,"  she  muttered,  huskily;  "the 
bird  has  flown.  You  must  seek  her  in  a  different  nest. 
Yestreen  it  had  been  another  matter,  but  to-day " 

Here  she  broke  off  into  a  trampling  measure: 


CHECK!  145 

If  s powder  and  reek  and  thunder, 
IVhen  the  cannon  begin  to  shoot. 

But  it's  girls  and  gold  and  plunder 
When  the  carlins  pouch  the  loot. 

"  What  has  become  of  Mistress  Wellwood,  you 
drunken  old  heathen  ?  "  demanded  Maurice,  full  of  gusty 
angers. 

The  old  woman  looked  at  him  cunningly. 

"'Heathen,'  said  ye?"  she  muttered.  "Aye,  'tis  a 
distinction  in  this  place,  where  they  pray  all  day  and 
plunder  all  night.  By  my  faith,  I'd  rather  be  a  clean, 
even-down  heathen  than " 

"  Where  is  the  young  lady?  " 

"  The  young  lady — the  young  lady,"  repeated  the 
ancient  wine-bibber,  as  if  trying  to  recall  her  memory, 
"  that  were  too  difficult  a  question  for  me,  unless — 
unless " 

She  crooked  her  claw-fingers  suggestively,  till  Mau- 
rice, with  an  impatient  gesture,  threw,  rather  than  placed, 
a  gold  coin  within  them.  They  closed  automatically 
upon  it.  She  tugged  at  the  ungainly  trouser-leg  which 
was  about  her  frowsy  forehead  with  some  vague  idea, 
perhaps,  of  "  making  her  manners." 

"  I  thank  you,  sir,"  she  said,  biting  the  gold  surrepti- 
tiously. "  Come  in,  come  in  with  you,  and  see  that  old 
Elise  speaks  only  the  truth." 

She  lurched  forward  as  she  spoke,  upsetting  on  her 
way  a  can  of  dirty  water  and  a  dish-clout  on  the  boards 
of  the  floor. 

"  I  am  to  keep  all  clean  during  my  little  lady's  absence. 
You  have  not  another  of  these  pretty  yellow  things  about 
you  ?  "  she  stuttered.  "  I  have  been  sore  tried  with  my 
breathing,  and  I  find  these  labors  a  deal  too  hard  for  me  ! 
Eh,  dear,  if  ever  anyone  was  born  to  be  a  lady,  I  was  that 
woman !  " 

Maurice  felt  a  sudden  spasm  of  disgust,  but  curiosity 
drove  him  on. 

"Which  was  Jicr  room?"  he  said,  hastily;  then  as  if 


1 46         FLO  WER-O'-THE-CORN 

ashamed,  he  added,  "  I  understand  she  is  gone  away — 
you  will  tell  me  where?  In  the  meantime,  I  would  like 
to  see  her  room — where  she  lived,  I  mean !  " 

For  he  remembered  well  that  in  the  room  in  which 
Patrick  Wellwood  had  received  him,  there  had  stood  be- 
hind a  screen  the  plain  camp  bed  of  the  chaplain  of  Ard- 
millan's  regiment. 

The  old  woman,  with  a  grumbling  whine  about  know- 
ing when  she  could  trust  to  the  generosity  of  a  great  man, 
led  the  way  up  a  stair  and  threw  open  a  door.  There, 
sweet  and  white  and  clean  as  her  own  pure  skin,  was 
Flower-o'-the-Corn's  chamber — the  bed  folded  down 
and  showing  the  linen,  fine  and  choice,  the  walls  of  oak 
smoked  black  by  the  reek  from  the  great  open  fireplace, 
with  engravings  of  great  men  and  oblongs  of  embroid- 
ery and  tapestry  work  upon  them,  disposed  with  a  natural 
taste  under  this  beam  and  over  that  cupboard  door — so 
that  the  whole  (to  the  eyes  of  Maurice  Raith)  was  a  won- 
der and  a  marvel,  so  different  from  his  own  bare  quarters 
at  the  auberge  of  the  Bon  Chretien. 

He  almost  seemed  to  hear  Flower-o'-the-Corn's  clear 
voice  demanding  of  him  what  he  did  there  ?  It  was  like 
violating  a  shrine  of  the  Virgin. 

"  Go  in,  go  in !  "  croaked  the  vile  old  woman,  who 
had  meantime  repeated  the  dose  of  spirits  from  a  small 
pocket  bottle  behind  Maurice's  back,  while  he  stood  en- 
tranced ;  "  make  sure  that  the  little  missy  is  not  here — 
so  pretty  as  she  keeps  everything!  But  I  wager  it  is 
the  bird  you  want !  Ah,  you  soldiers,  you  are  all  alike. 
You  would  not  give  many  sous  for  the  poor  nest.  All 
the  same,  you  will  not  forget  poor  old  Elise  for  showing 
it  to  you." 

Maurice  Raith  felt  that  it  would  be  an  indignity  almost 
personal  to  enter  the  dwelling-place  of  so  pure  a  spirit  in 
his  great  clumping  military  boots.  Instinctively  he  took 
off  his  hat  at  the  open  door,  said  an  unwonted  prayer, 
and  so  stole  silently  away,  his  head  downcast,  leaving  the 
drunken  old  woman  to  follow  or  not  as  it  pleased  her. 


CHECK!  147 

She  locked  up  the  chamber,  and  grumblingly  de- 
scended. 

"  Whither  did  you  say  Mistress  Frances  had  gone  ?  " 
he  asked  as  carelessly  as  he  could. 

The  old  woman,  a  horror  of  chalk-pale  cheeks  and 
brick-red  features,  with  that  unspeakable  headgear  of 
her  husband's  breeches,  swagging  this  way  and  that  oyer 
her  blowsy  bosom,  laid  her  finger  cunningly  by  the  side 
of  her  nose,  with  a  cunning  action  which  said,  "  Don't 
you  wish  you  may  get  it !  " 

Maurice,  ever  willing  to  take  the  plainest  road  to  the 
solution  of  any  problem,  extracted  a  second  gold  Louis 
from  his  pocket.  He  held  it  between  his  finger  and 
thumb  in  full  view  of  the  blear-eyed  crone. 

"  Has  Mistress  Frances  at  the  last  moment  accom- 
panied her  father?  "  he  asked. 

Madame  Elise  shook  her  head  so  emphatically  that 
the  ruins  of  a  tobacco  pouch,  the  brass  clasps  worn  to 
the  quick,  tumbled  out  of  the  pocket  of  her  head-dress 
and  debouched  its  contents  upon  the  floor. 

"  No,"  she  said  ;  "  she  stayed  here  by  herself  for  two 
hours  last  night  reading  good  books — her  father's  books. 
Then  came  Mistress  Foy  and  took  her  away — saying 
that  it  was  not  becoming  that  a  young  girl  so  beautiful 
should  be  left  alone  in  such  a  wide  house !  He,  he ! 
Doubtless  she  had  an  inkling  of  your  coming,  sir !  " 

Maurice  turned  on  his  heel  as  on  a  pivot  and  stamped 
his  way  out  angrily.  But  the  crone  pursued  after  him, 
crying,  "The  gold,  good  gentleman!  The  golden 
Louis!  Do  not  defraud  a  poor  old  woman!  And,  in- 
deed, I  would  have  kept  her  if  I  could,  kind  gentleman. 
Much  more  money  would  have  come  to  poor  old  Elise 
if  she  had  remained  here !  " 

Over  his  shoulder  Maurice  angrily  tossed  the  piece 
of  gold,  which  the  unclean  hag  caught  ere  it  fell  and 
stowed  away  in  her  pouch  carefully.  For  did  it  not  con- 
tain the  means  of  procuring  many  small  square-faced 
bottles — an   export  of  the    States-General   of   Holland 


148 


FLOWER-O'-THE-CORN 


which  Madame  Elise  counted  more  precious  than  whole 
parks  of  artillery. 

Then  with  a  peevish  drunkard's  curse  she  consigned 
her  benefactor  to  the  particular  Hades  known  as  the 
Paradise  of  Fools.  She  had  no  respect  for  young  men 
who  spent  their  money  so  foolishly.  When  she  was 
young — well,  matters  had  gone  quite  otherwise. 

But  at  that  time,  as  it  struck  her  on  coming  opposite 
a  mirror,  she  had  not  suffered  so  continuously  from 
swelled  face,  nor  yet  had  she  worn  her  husband's 
breeches  as  a  morning  coiffure — which,  after  all,  might 
conceivably  make  a  difference. 


XVII 

UNDER    WHICH    QUEEN,    BEZONIAN  ? 

SO  great  and  even  overwhelming-  was  the  influence 
of  Jean  Cavaher  upon  the  Camisards  who  had 
refuged  themselves  in  the  little  town  of  La  Cava- 
lerie,  upon  the  crown  of  the  Causse  of  Larzac,  that  none 
ventured  to  counter  Maurice  in  word  or  deed,  save  Cati- 
nat  alone — and  he  rather  by  making  it  difficult  to  carry- 
out  his  military  dispositions  owing  to  superabundant  re- 
ligious exercises  than  by  any  direct  opposition. 

It  was  at  this  juncture  that  the  Marechal  de  Montrevel 
began  to  manifest  renewed  activity.  He  moved  out  of 
Millau,  and  as  a  first  measure  occupied  all  the  valley  of 
the  Dourbie,  with  the  exception  of  the  fortified  village  of 
Saint  Veran,  a  perfect  eagle's  nest  upon  an  eminence  so 
completely  isolated,  that  only  by  means  of  a  cable  could 
communication  be  held  between  the  Camisards  there  and 
those  upon  the  nearest  escarpment  of  the  Causse  of  Lar- 
zac. This  took  place  even  over  the  heads  of  the  King's 
outposts,  who  often  used  to  fire  upward  at  the  packages 
which  were  sent  to  and  fro  overhead  upon  the  swinging 
cradles,  on  the  chance  that  they  might  contain  a  stray 
Camisard  or  two,  escaping  from  the  hen-coop  of  the 
Causse  Noir  to  the  comparative  freedom  of  the  Larzac. 

This  move  of  the  enemy  was  rather  a  relief  than  other- 
wise to  the  feelings  of  Maurice  Raith.  It  gave  him  some- 
thing to  think  of  besides  the  fact  that  Flower-o'-the-Corn 
was  in  the  same  house  and  inaccessible  to  him. 

For  whatever  might  have  been  the  ideas  or  desires  of 
Frances  Wellwood  on  the  subject  of  Pierre  Dubois, 
Yvette  saw  to  it  that  these  were  not  carried  out. 

The  whole  menage  of  the  Bon  Chretien  was  a  curious 

149 


1 50        FLOWER-O'-THE-CORN 

one.  Martin  Foy,  who  had  been  left  behind  by  Cavalier 
(as  not  sufficiently  young  and  active),  was  unwearied  in 
his  attempts  to  bring  his  reluctant  family  together. 
Many  of  his  temporary  guests  had  departed,  and  he  was 
therefore  at  liberty  to  devote  a  much  larger  portion  of  his 
leisure  to  Maurice  Raith's  entertainment  than  that  young 
man  was  at  all  grateful  for.  It  is  quite  possible,  however, 
that  he  may  have  received  from  his  daughter  a  hint  to 
that  eflfect. 

At  all  events,  certain  it  is  that  though  Maurice  had  no 
difficulty  in  coming  to  face-to-face  speech  with  Yvette 
Foy,  he  could  not  advance  one  step  in  the  direction  of 
breaking  down  the  iron  reserve  behind  which  Flower- 
o'-the-Corn  had  chosen  to  intrench  herself. 

Every  day  and,  indeed,  every  hour  he  spent  within  the 
Bon  Chretien,  Yvette  Foy  never  left  him  to  himself. 
Never  was  a  lonely  man  so  comforted  and  cossetted.  And 
had  Maurice  Raith  not  longed  with  all  his  heart  for  the 
blue  eyes  of  Frances  Wellwood,  he  might  very  well  have 
contented  himself  with  the  exceedingly  obvious  favor  of 
the  very  fair  demoiselle  Mistress  Yvette  Foy. 

She  compassed  him  about  with  kindness,  far  above  his 
thought  or  even  his  desire.  Whoever  at  the  Bon  Chre- 
tien might  go  hungry,  Maurice  Raith  must  be  fed,  and  to 
the  minute.  When  he  came  in  from  the  walls  and  the 
trenches  (for  he  was  continuing  and  extending  the  mili- 
tary works  of  Cavalier  on  more  scientific,  though,  per- 
haps, not  more  adequate  lines)  he  never  entered  the 
auberge  or  left  behind  him  the  sharp  tang  of  the  stable 
atmosphere,  without  finding  at  the  top  of  the  stairs  a 
lovely  face,  a  bewitching  smile,  and  a  hand  pressed 
quickly  to  a  softly  kerchiefed  bosom,  as  if  the  "  long- 
looked-for-come-at-last  "  were  a  pleasure  too  great  for  a 
form  so  frail  to  endure. 

Still  more,  in  the  minutest  details  of  the  camp  work  and 
the  duty  of  the  trenches  Yvette  proved  herself  not  only 
an  excellent  listener,  but  a  most  clear-sighted  critic. 

Never  was  Maurice  so  late,  but  Yvette  Foy  was  there, 


UNDER   WHICH    QUEEN?       151 

ready  to  remove  his  cloak  from  his  shoulders,  heavy  as 
lead  with  rain  or  battened  white  with  snow.  An  un- 
wonted freedom  of  welcome,  a  gracious  and  gentle  com- 
plaisance seemed  to  envelop  him  from  the  moment  he 
left  behind  the  chill  and  slush  of  the  highway. 

And  the  explanation  of  this  was  no  other  than  the  fact 
that  Yvette  Foy  had  taken  for  her  model — who  but 
Flower-o'-the-Corn. 

She  had  said  to  herself,  "  Here  is  a  man  who  is  to  be 
won.  He  can  be  won.  For  is  he  not  a  man?  I  will  win 
him!  But  how?  He  is  inclined  (so  inconceivable  are  the 
follies  of  men)  to  be  fond  of  this  whey-faced  she-Puritan 
from  overseas,  who  never  had  a  desire  beyond  conserve 
of  rose-leaves  plastered  on  new  baked  bread  all  her 
blameless  life.  Well,  if  that  be  what  he  admires,  he 
shall  have  it !  But  with  an  unstaled  charm,  an  untasted 
fervor,  a  new  insistence.  He  shall  learn  a  page — only 
a  page  of  the  book  which  has  on  its  title-page  the  name 
of  Yvette  Foy." 

So  from  that  moment  a  new  life  began  for  Maurice 
Raith.  He  had  never  had  a  woman  to  think  either  for  or 
of  him  before.  His  snell-tempered,  tender-hearted  aunt 
in  the  great  old  house  of  Raith  would  doubtless  have  shed 
the  last  drop  of  her  scant  and  thin  blood  for  his  sake.  But 
equally  she  would  have  died  before  she  let  him  know  it. 

Such  welcomings,  then,  as  Maurice  Raith  gat  on  his 
incoming  into  the  house  of  the  Bon  Chretien  might  well 
bind  a  man  with  the  ties  which  are  called  those  of  home. 
He  found  by  some  wondrous  magic  all  things  ready  to  his 
hand.  His  requirements  were  comprehended  and  pro- 
vided for  (as  it  seemed)  even  before  the  thought  had 
flashed  across  his  brain. 

And,  withal,  there  was  an  atmosphere  of  womanly  at- 
tention, the  woven  glamour  of  meetings  and  partings, 
the  subtle  difference  which  the  mere  presence  of  a  fair 
woman  makes  in  a  house.  All  these  the  young  aide  to 
my  Lord  Marlborough  now  experienced  for  the  first 
time. 


152        FLOWER-O'-THE-CORN 

Yet  in  all  this,  nor  word  nor  glimpse  of  Frances  Well- 
wood  did  he  obtain.  She  never  showed  herself  on  the 
street.  She  dwelt  wholly  on  the  top  l^oor  of  the  Tem- 
plars' House,  where  she  and  Yvette  Foy  shared  one  great 
room  in  such  completeness  and  closeness  of  amity,  as  is 
only  attained  by  college  companions  and  young  girls  in 
their  first  burst  of  friendship  and  confidence. 

Not  but  what  Maurice  made  several  attempts  to  break 
through  the  reserve  of  his  young  hostess  with  regard  to 
her  friend. 

One  night  in  particular  he  had  come  back  to  the  Bon 
Chretien  weary  and  depressed.  The  six  days  of  his  com- 
mand were  already  half  over,  and  as  far  as  he  was  con- 
cerned, Flower-o'-the-Corn  had  far  better  have  been  with 
her  father  in  the  westernmost  tower  over  the  Templars' 
Gate.  He  looked  up  at  the  lighted  window  of  the  room 
which  he  knew  to  be  Yvette  Foy's,  and  wondered  if  there 
was  within  any  thought  of  him — if  an  ear  (the  ear  was 
shell-thin  and  pink-lined)  inclined  itself  ever  so  little  to 
catch  the  clatter  of  his  heavy  boots  on  the  steps,  the 
tinkle  of  his  spurs  (which  being  a  man  and  a  soldier  he 
could  not  deny  himself  the  satisfaction  of  wearing)  and 
the  clank  of  his  sabre  on  the  stone  turns  of  the  stair.  He 
wondered.  He  sighed,  and  lo!  there,  above  him  on  the 
landing,  stood  a  vision  which  might  have  turned  the  head 
of  a  wiser  and  an  older  man  than  Captain  Maurice  Raith. 

Maurice  was  not  vain,  but,  like  most  men,  he  was 
vainer  than  he  thought  himself.  Thus  gradually  Yvette 
r  oy  s  gracious  attentions  won  upon  him.  And  this  night, 
after  a  peculiarly  wearing  day,  when  Catinat  (or  Abdias 
Maurel,  as  his  true  name  was)  had  been  more  than 
usually  hateful,  it  is  no  wonder  that  the  sight  of  the  girl 
Yvette,  in  her  finest  and  daintiest  raiment  (a  gown  which 
had  been  sent  her  from  Paris  by  her  friend  Mademoiselle 
Eugenie  la  Gracieuse),  bending  eagerly  as  if  to  watch  for 
his  return  over  the  iron  balustrades  of  the  stairway  land- 
ing, sent  a  warm  glow  through  his  heart. 

And,  indeed,  Yvette  was  a  lovely  vision,  her  black  hair 


UNDER    WHICH    QUEEN?       153 

heaped  on  the  top  of  her  head,  confined  at  the  back  with 
a  small  diamond  and  tortoise-shell  comb,  the  flush  of 
youth  and  health  on  her  cheek,  her  lips  red  as  the  pome- 
granate blossom,  the  most  joyous  of  all  earthly  hues  seen 
against  the  sapphire  of  the  sky.  Her  gown  was  of  the 
palest  blue,  such  as  an  ordinary  girl  would  have  thought 
possible  only  with  a  rose-leaf  complexion  and  a  skin  of 
milk.  But  in  this  as  in  all  that  pertained  to  personal  at- 
traction, Yvette  Foy  made  no  mistakes. 

She  knew  that  none  can  wear  pale  blue  with  such  effect 
as  a  dark-eyed  girl  with  an  ivory  skin  and  heaped  masses 
of  hair,  with  blood  that  comes  and  goes  in  dusky  wine- 
red  flushes  upon  her  cheeks,  responsive  to  the  beat- 
ing of  her  heart.  A  little  white  fringe  of  fleecy  lace  was 
about  her  neck — above,  the  heaped,  careless,  tumbled 
masses  of  dark  hair,  the  subtle  drawing  power  of  willing 
eyes,  the  slender  lissomeness  of  her  girlish  figure.  Small 
wonder  if  that  night  Maurice  Raith  owned  to  himself  that 
there  were  but  few  maids  in  France  equal  in  beauty  to 
Yvette  Foy,  of  the  Bon  Chretien,  in  the  Camisard  village 
of  La  Cavalerie, 

He  stood  a  moment  beneath  her,  struck,  regardant, 
while  she  smiled — smiled  with  the  half-petulant  assurance 
of  a  girl  who  is  certain  of  her  charms,  and  the  aplomb  of  a 
woman  who  can  afford  to  give  a  man  the  full  pleasure  of 
the  eye  without  compromising  herself. 

"  Ah,"  he  murmured  in  English,  without  thinking  what 
he  spoke,  "  but  you  are  very  lovely.  I  had  not  thought 
it." 

"  Pardon  me,"  she  said,  in  her  own  pretty  French, 
"  but  I  do  not  understand.  I  have  not  the  English — no 
word  of  it!     'Tis  my  misfortune!  " 

Though  indeed  she  had  understood  well  enough  the 
start,  the  stoppage  on  the  stairway,  the  dumb  gaze  up- 
ward, Maurice's  sudden  anxiety  about  the  state  of  his 
boots  and  wet  coat,  and  even  the  uncertain  tone  of  his 
speech.  These  were  all  in  a  universal  language,  exceed- 
ingly well  understood  of  Mistress  Yvette  Foy,  who  had 
had  much  experience. 


1 54        FLOWER-O'-THE-CORN 

"  Yon  will  get  cold  standing-  there  in  that  dress,"  he 
said  at  last,  as  he  came  up  to  the  landing,  unable  to  take 
his  eyes  off  such  a  radiant  vision. 

Yvette  laughed  with  light  amusement. 

"  I  wonder,"  she  said,  "  how  long  it  will  take  you  to 
get  the  parade  rasp  out  of  your  voice  when  you  come  into 
my  parlor!  " 

"  Did  I  order  you — I  did  not  mean  it!  "  said  Maurice, 
penitently  enough. 

"  Indeed,  it  sounded  much  like  it,"  she  said,  "  but  give 
me  your  cloak!    I  will  order  you  in  my  turn." 

"  Indeed,  I  will  not;  on  other  nights  when  you  are  not 
arrayed  as  one  of  the  angels  of  heaven — all  in  white  and 
blue.    But  not  to-night!  " 

She  stamped  her  little  foot  sharply,  with  a  mock  in- 
tolerance. 

"  Who  is  in  charge  of  this  commanderie  of  the  Bon 
Chretien,  you  or  I?"  she  cried. 

"  You — you — of  a  surety — you  and  no  other!  "  he  re- 
plied, with  mock  humility,  and  as  if  in  haste  not  to  dis- 
please her. 

"  Well  then — your  cloak !  " 

And  she  took  the  great  heavy  folds  from  off  his  shoul- 
ders with  a  masterful  action.  They  were  no  light  weight 
as  she  held  them  out  dripping  at  arm's  length. 

"  See,"  she  said,  "  can  any  in  your  regiments  do  more 
for  you  than  little  Yvette  Foy — aye,  even  the  sour- 
browed  gypsy  downstairs  himself?  " 

And,  indeed,  the  light  way  in  which  she  bent  to  the 
ground  and  lifted  heavy  weights — the  easy  indifference 
with  which  she  could,  upon  occasion,  and  with  the  utmost 
nonchalance,  do  the  work  of  a  man,  proved  the  exquisite 
perfection  of  the  muscles  which  worked  so  smoothly, 
contracting  and  extending  rhythmically  under  that  satin 
skin. 

Then,  after  a  little  pause,  she  spoke  caressingly,  yet 
simply,  as  his  mother  might  have  done  (at  least,  so  Mau- 
rice   Raith    thought,    who    could    not    remember    his 


UNDER   WHICH    QUEEN?       155 

mother),  "  Go  into  this  Httle  room  where  there  is  a  fire. 
Change  your  wet  boots  there,  and  then,  when  you  are 
ready,  come  into  my  parlor  and  tell  me  all  about  your 
troubles.  I  see  you  have  been  distressed  to-day.  Cati- 
nat,  I  suppose,  as  usual.  But  you  shall  tell  me  all  after- 
ward! " 

She  vanished,  light  as  the  flitting  shadow  of  a  bird 
when  it  crosses  the  road  in  the  sunshine.  Nevertheless, 
it  remained  long  in  Maurice's  mind  that  ere  she  went  she 
had  tossed  him  a  careless  kiss  from  her  finger-tips,  such 
as  a  sister  might  have  done.  Maurice  had  no  sister;  but 
in  this,  as  in  other  things,  he  felt  that  he  had  been  badly 
treated  by  nature.  Such  a  sister  as  Yvette  Foy,  so  full 
of  understanding,  so  capable,  so  sympathizing  in  all 
things,  never  in  the  way  and  never  out  of  it — pox  on  it, 
how  happy  a  fellow  might  have  been  if  only  he  had  had 
for  a  sister  Yvette  Foy — and,  of  course,  Flower-o'-the- 
Corn. 

But  he  did  not  get  time  to  specify  the  relationship, 
motherly  or  otherwise,  in  which  he  desired  Flower-o'- 
the-Corn  to  serve  his  high  masculine  majesty,  before  a 
low  quick  knock  returned  to  the  door  of  the  little  room. 
It  had  evidently  been  occupied  for  other  purposes  than 
the  dofifing  of  wet  masculine  garments.  For  petticoats 
and  feminine  folderols  hung  about  it,  all  in  a  faint  inde- 
scribable perfume,  an  atmosphere  of  dainty  white-and- 
pink  confusion  which  went  to  Maurice  Raith's  head  like 
wine ! 

Gingerly  the  young  man  opened  the  door.  Yvette 
Foy  stood  before  him  smiling,  a  pair  of  slippers  in  her 
hand  and  dry  stockings  over  her  arm. 

"  They  are  my  father's,"  she  said,  in  an  excusing  tone; 
"  you  may  find  them  rough.  All  the  same,  I  knitted  them 
myself,  so  I  can  promise  you  that  they  are  warm,  and, 
indeed,  I  have  had  them  for  an  hour  or  more  before  the 
fire  before  bringing  them  down!  " 

She  nodded  brightly  once  more  and  turned  to  go, 
while  he  remained  dumbly  gazing  at  her  with  the  stock- 
ings and  slippers  in  his  hands. 


1 56        FLOWER-O'-THE-CORN 

Perhaps  it  was  that  which  made  the  girl  turn  her  head 
over  her  shoulder  with  a  peculiarly  witching  smile  as  she 
stood  on  the  second  step  of  the  stair. 

"  Am  not  I  a  good  hostess — to  those  I — I — like?"  she 
said. 

And  the  last  part  of  the  sentence  was  spoken  very  low, 
and  the  expression  of  her  eyes  at  the  moment  would  have 
satisfied  most  men. 

Then  she  seemed  to  take  fright  at  what  she  had  said 
and  took  to  her  heels. 

Maurice  Raith  could  hear  her  pretty  Parisian  slippers 
clittcr-clattcring  up  the  stairs  toward  her  bedroom  at  a 
great  rate.  Then  came  the  slam  of  a  door  and — silence. 
All  the  while  he  stood  in  the  blank  doorway,  the  warm 
woollen  stockings  and  the  easy  slippers  in  his  hand,  his 
heart  trying  in  vain  to  beat  out  its  admiration  for  two 
girls  at  once.  His  heart  was  not,  so  he  told  himself,  in 
the  least  untrue  to  Flower-o'-the-Corn.  How  could  he 
be?  But  he  certainly  wanted  Yvette  Foy  very  much — 
as  a  sister. 

Indeed,  at  that  moment,  he  would  have  given  anyone 
even  to  the  half  of  his  kingdom  (no  great  matter!)  to  tell 
him  which  girl  he  was  in  love  with.  And  the  man  who 
told  him  would  have  earned  the  premium. 

No  doubt  (for  the  lad  was  sound)  in  his  heart  of 
hearts  he  loved  but  one  girl  only.  And  she  Frances 
Wellwood,  the  daughter  of  one  Patrick,  of  that  name. 

But,  in  spite  of  all  tradition,  proximity  and  propin- 
quity deal  far  more  hardly  with  men  than  with  women, 
and  an  early  and  ineradicable  affection  has  its  place  much 
oftener  within  the  bosom  of  a  woman  than  in  the  heart  of 
a  man. 


I 


XVIII 

THE    DANGEROUS    PLAY    OF   BROTHER    AND 
SISTER 

BROTHER-AND-SISTER  is  by  a  great  deal  the 
most    dangerous    game    which    young    people, 
unconnected   by   ties   of   birth,   can    set   them- 
selves to  play. 

Yet  by  the  fire  in  the  little  dressing-room  Maurice 
Raith,  alias  Pierre  the  Wagoner,  drew  off  his  wet  socks, 
and  with  sighs  of  a  prodigious  comfort  endued  himself 
with  the  consolation  of  warm  woollen  upon  his  feet,  not 
hurrying  himself  greatly,  in  so  much  as  he  wished  to 
think  over  certain  things  before  he  betook  him  to  the 
warm  parlor  and  sisterly  tcte-a-tcte  to  which  he  had  been 
invited. 

That  he  did  not  love  Yvette  Foy  and  that  he  did  love 
Flower-o'-the-Corn — so  much  was  clear  to  him.  But, 
all  the  same,  there  was  a  feeling  in  his  heart  both  angry 
and  indignant.  What  had  he  done  that  she  should  thus 
treat  him  as  an  outcast,  hold  him  not  only  at  a  distance, 
but  refuse  to  come  near  him,  as  though  he  carried  the 
pestilence  about  with  him? 

He  would  not  stand  it.  No  man  of  any  pride  would. 
(By  this  time  he  had  one  foot  completely  equipped,  and 
the  warm  glow  replacing  the  chill  wetness  accentuated  the 
thoughtfulness  of — the  Other.) 

Nine  men  out  of  ten  are  moved  by  physical  consid- 
erations in  their  affections.  Women  never  believe  this, 
or,  at  least,  but  few  of  them.  Sometimes  the  odd  woman 
who  does  believe  it,  comes  across  the  tenth  man  whose 
love  is  wholly  in  his  soul,  and  the  results  are  worthy  of 
the  closest  study.     But  so  it  was  not  in  this  case. 

157 


158        FLOWER-O'-THE-CORN 

Maurice  Raith  was  in  every  respect  a  perfectly  normal 
young  man,  and  the  feeling  of  comfort  stealing  up  from 
his  wet  foot,  the  pleasing  tickling  of  the  warm  rough  sock 
did  very  well  in  the  place  of  afifection  (sisterly,  of  course). 

Yet  there  was  in  him  no  thought  of  untruth.  He  loved 
— only  his  love  was  unkind.  That  was  all.  But  he  did 
not  talk,  as  many  foolish  youths  have  done,  of  "  two 
strings  to  his  bow,"  or  believe  (which  is  a  vain  thing) 
that  such  bow-strings  will  neither  entangle  themselves 
nor  go  about  his  own  neck  with  more  than  Turkish  cer- 
tainty. No,  he  was  all  in  favor  of  pure  "  sisterly  affec- 
tion "  and  the  commerce  of  souls,  without  knowing 
(poor  lad!)  that  such  things  are  vain  between  men  and 
women,  unless  provided  for  by  the  family  circle  and  the 
parish  register. 

The  sisters  whom  men  desire  to  adopt  are  invariably 
pretty,  and  their  manners  and  customs  are  not  those  of 
the  sisters  of  the  home  and  the  family.  But  Maurice  was 
young,  and  did  not  know  this.  He  cherished  an  insane 
desire  to  have  Yvette  Foy — his  thoughtful  hostess  and 
charming  friend,  for  a  sister — a  temporary  sister — with, 
of  course,  privileges  such  as  are  granted  to  all  good  real 
brothers — who,  however,  but  rarely  and  indifferently 
avail  themselves  of  them. 

Yvette  Foy,  on  the  contrary,  had  no  such  fraterno- 
sororial  illusions.  She  understood  making  love,  its  be- 
ginning, middle,  and  end — as  it  were,  its  high,  low,  Jack, 
and  game!  But  as  to  anything  milder — no,  thank  you! 
She  would  leave  that  for  mealy-mouthed,  whey-drinking, 
please-cover-up-my-ankles  girls — like,  well — like  Fran- 
ces Wellwood,  whom  they  called  Flower-o'-the-Corn. 
Flowcr-o'-thc-Corn,  forsooth!  Flower-o'-Miss  Prinkety 
Primsey's-Garden-plot,  more  like! 

Yvette  looked  at  herself  in  the  glass. 

"  No,"  she  laughed  with  the  low  contralto  warble 
grown  a  little  scornful  low  down  in  her  throat,  "  if  there 
must  be  a  Flower-o'-the-Corn  it  is  I — the  red  Poppy  is 
the  only  true  flower  o'  the  corn!  " 


BROTHER    AND    SISTER        159 

And  she  looked  in  the  mirror  as  she  arranged  her  hair, 
just  long  enough  to  catch  the  scarlet  dash  of  her  red  lips 
upon  the  ivory  of  her  face.  They  were  smiling  scornfully, 
and  she  liked  to  see  them  so. 

She  looked  across  to  where  Frances  Wellwood  was 
busily  reading  books  out  of  her  father's  library,  in  which 
(strange  as  it  may  appear)  she  found  at  that  time  her 
chiefest  diversion. 

She  glanced  up  at  her  friend  looping  up  and  ranging 
cunningly  the  great  dark  masses  of  her  hair. 

"  Why  have  you  to  go  down  again? "  she  asked, 
"  surely  you  have  had  enough  to  fret  you  this  day!  And 
you  will  not  let  me  do  anything  to  help  you.  I  could  cry 
for  very  idleness!  " 

Yvette  went  over  to  Frances  Wellwood  quickly  and 
kissed  her. 

"  Dearest,"  she  said,  "  I  did  not  bring  you  hither  for 
aught  but  to  give  you  such  rest  and  peace  as  you  need. 
Rest  thee  then,  sweetness!  I  am  but  a  poor  innkeeper's 
daughter,  and  it  behoves  that  I  attend  upon  my  guests. 
Pardon  me  now  that  I  leave  you! " 

And  so  snatching  up  the  warm  socks  and  slippers  from 
the  hearth,  she  went  out.  "  For  my  father  and  his 
friends,"  she  said,  "the  messenger  waits  for  me!" 

And  so  she  vanished  with  a  lovely  and  loving  smile 
upon  her  face.  And  Frances  Wellwood  thought  within 
herself  that  never  since  the  world  began  had  there  been 
given  to  any  girl,  a  friend  so  dear  and  unselfish  as  this 
Yvette  Foy  of  the  village  of  La  Cavalerie.  And  as  she 
thought  a  tear  stole  slowly  down  from  under  her  long 
drooped  lashes — perhaps  for  the  love  she  bore  her  friend 
— perhaps  for  the  lack  of  something  else  which  was  not  in 
her  life,  but  for  which,  even  in  its  own  despite,  her  whole 
soul  longed. 

Then,  peacefully  and  sweetly  as  ever  did  any  maiden, 
Yvette  went  down.    She  had  told  no  lie  with  the  tongue. 

She  found  Maurice  Raith  with  the  radiant  face  which 
unexpected  kindness  always  produces  upon  the  unspoilt 


1 60        FLOWER-O'-THE-CORN 

and  really  simple-minded.  And  so,  of  a  truth,  Maurice 
was,  in  spite  of  his  experience  of  courts  and  the  advice 
of  the  First  Courtier  of  the  Century. 

"  Why  are  you  so  kind  to  mef  "  he  said  quickly,  as  he 
saw  Yvette  holding  something  very  like  emotion  in 
check.  The  thought  of  his  treatment  by  Frances  Well- 
wood  made  the  question  more  keenly  edged  than  it  need 
have  been. 

Impulsively,  and  like  a  young  girl,  Yvette  held  out  both 
her  hands  for  him  to  take. 

"  Because,"  she  said,  frankly,  "  I  have  no  friend  here 
who  can  understand  me — and  I  need  one  so !  " 

"  But  the  pastor's  daughter,  Mistress  Wellwood? " 
suggested  Maurice. 

Instinctively  Yvette  knew  that  to  say  a  word  against 
Flower-o'-the-Corn  would  undo  all  that  had  been  done. 

She  looked  about  wildly,  and  then,  as  if  constrained  to 
utterance,  she  murmured,  "  Must  I  confide  in  you?" 

He  looked  at  her  standing  there,  straight-eyed,  quiet, 
reliable,  as  one  who  could  keep  all  secrets,  either  of  her 
own  or  other  people's. 

"  I  must !  I  will !  "  she  said,  with  a  stifled  intonation, 
as  if  necessity  drove  her. 

"  Well,"  she  whispered  in  his  ear,  "  this  is  a  secret 
which  must  be  kept — most  of  all  from  Frances  Wellwood. 
Her  father  is  here  in  this  place  as  a  spy  and  a  traitor!  " 

Maurice  gasped. 

"Impossible!"  he  began.     "I  have  known  him " 

He  stopped.  He  was  but  Pierre  the  Wagoner,  and  had 
no  right  to  reveal  the  secrets  of  the  late  chaplain  of  Ard- 
millan's  regiment. 

"  I  believe  it,"  she  said;  "  I  have  discovered  his  past 
— all  of  it.  I  know  whence  he  came,  and  that  he  is  here 
without  any  authority  from  his  superiors  either  of  the 
Church  or  of  the  army !  You  know  that  as  well  as  I,  if  I 
judge  aright!  " 

She  waited  for  her  words  to  take  effect,  and  then  con- 
tinued.   The  sentences,  as  if  driven  from  her  by  the  stress 


BROTHER    AND    SISTER       i6i 

of  circumstances,  were  punctuated  by  the  great  tears 
dropping  down  her  cheeks. 

"  I  cannot  tell  his  daughter — I  cannot — I  cannot!  She 
is  so  sweet  and  good.  It  would  kill  her.  I  dare  not  tell 
the  Camisard  chiefs,  nor  Jean  Cavalier,  nor  my  father. 
They  would  have  his  life  on  the  instant.  And — often- 
times (do  not  think  hardly  of  me) — I  am  so  driven  that  I 
know  not  what  to  do.    I  am  only  a  girl,  you  see!  " 

She  was  sobbing  undisguisedly  now,  the  great  throat- 
rending  gasps  almost  like  those  of  a  man,  shaking  every 
part  of  her  frame.  Maurice  stepped  forward  quickly,  and 
caught  her  about  the  slender  body.  No  man,  least  of  all 
no  brother,  could  have  done  less. 

"Do  not — do  not,"  he  stammered,  eagerly;  "you  do 
the  man  wrong " 

"  Oh,  indeed,  if  I  could  believe  it,  how  happy  would 
I  be!  "  sighed  Yvette,  catching  him  by  the  lapels  of  his 
waistcoat;  "but  can  you  believe  it  yourself?  You  came 
with  a  message  and  a  commission.  But  had  you  any  in- 
formation as  to  this  pastor?  " 

It  was  a  bow  shot  at  a  venture,  and  it  went  straight  in 
at  the  joint  of  Maurice's  armor.  He  was  silent,  for  the 
shot  had  told. 

Yvette  saw  her  advantage,  and  went  on  still  sobbing 
undisguisedly,  but  not  at  all  moving  out  of  Maurice's 
arm — appearing  wholly  unconscious  of  it,  rather. 

"  But  what  of  that,"  she  said,  with  a  swift  impatient 
motion  of  the  hand,  turning  to  her  desk.  "  I  have  here 
first-hand  evidence  of  the  man's  guilt.  He  is  in  corre- 
spondence with  the  Marechal  de  Montrevel.  Behold  his 
signature!  " 

And  on  the  back  of  an  unopened  envelope,  sealed  with 
a  coat  of  arms,  appeared  the  signature,  "  Aug.  de  la 
Bonnie,"  the  family  name  and  style  of  the  Marquis  and 
Marechal  of  Montrevel. 

Maurice  turned  the  missive  thoughtfully  over  and  over 
in  his  hand.  His  brow  darkened.  Involuntarily  a  devil's 
advocate's  explanation  of  many  things  rose  up  in  his 
mind. 


1 62         FLO  WER-O'-THE-CORN 

Marlborough,  who  had  made  him  his  messenger  official, 
would  never  have  crossed  his  track  or  rendered  his  posi- 
tion more  difficult  by  sending  an  unauthorized  rival.  At 
least,  he  would  not  have  done  so  without  his  knowledge. 
No,  with  all  his  faults  John  Churchill  would  never  so 
have  dealt  doubly  with  him. 

The  missive  was  clearly  addressed  to  "  Mons.  le  Pas- 
teur Patrick  Wellwood,  dit  de  Geneve."  And  in  the 
corner  was  written  in  the  same  hand  as  the  signature, 
"  To  be  delivered  only  into  the  hand  of  the  person  ad- 
dressed." 

"What  must  I  do?  Oh,  what  must  I  do?"  sobbed 
Yvette,  her  bosom  swelling  and  the  great  globed  tears 
chasing  each  other  swiftly  down  her  cheeks.  "  I  am  only 
a  girl — a  girl  in  the  midst  of  men's  afifairs  and  all  alone. 
And — you  are  the  only  one  whom  I  dare  to  consult!  " 

"  Your  father!  "  suggested  Maurice. 

The  girl  made  a  little  contemptuous  movement,  very 
characteristic. 

"  Yes,"  she  said,  "  if  I  wanted  to  see  the  blood  of  Pat- 
rick Wellwood  staining  the  road  one  hour  after — then  I 
would  go  to  my  father.  Indeed,  I  might  as  well  go  to 
Catinat  at  once!    But,  instead,  I  have  come  to  you!  " 

And  she  raised  her  great  eyes  to  his — rich  velvety- 
black,  brimming  with  unshed  tears.  Than  which  eyes 
can  look  no  more  entrancingly. 

"  I  have  come  to  ask  you,"  she  said. 

And  smiled  at  him — ever  so  faintly. 

This  time  she  was  successful.  There  was  no  restrain- 
ing music  upon  the  street  now,  no  chaunted  psalm  to 
stay  the  kiss  wherewith  Maurice  could  not  help  (for  the 
life  of  him)  comforting  Yvette.  She  looked  so  lovely 
and  so  wistful.  She  stood  there  so  lost  in  a  strait  be- 
twixt loyalty  to  her  people  and  love  for  her  friend.  She 
had  appealed  to  him — to  him — Maurice  Raith.  Clearly 
(since  she  was  his  sister)  it  was  his  duty  to  stay  those 
sobs  as  best  he  could,  and  to  lay  a  comforting  and 
brotherly  salutation  upon  those  trembling  lips. 


BROTHER    AND    SISTER        163 

He  did  both.  Or,  rather,  he  was  performing  his  duty 
with  fidehty  and  a  certain  attention  to  detail  exceedingly 
commendable,  when  a  faint  rustling  noise  made  them 
both  turn  round.  Yvette  whipped  the  letter  quickly  be- 
hind her,  but  did  not  strive  to  withdraw  herself  out  of 
Maurice  Raith's  encircling  arm. 

A  tall  slight  figure,  made  slighter  by  a  closely-clinging 
black  dress,  stood  in  the  doorway.  The  face  was  white 
as  with  mortal  sickness — the  blue  eyes  hunted  and  very 
pitiful.  For  while  Maurice  Raith  stood  up  warmly 
stockinged  and  slippered,  in  act  to  console  his  sister 
Yvette — to  "  kiss  her  tears  away  " — Flower-o'-the-Corn 
had  entered  unseen  and  unheard  to  ask  a  question  of  her 
hostess.  She  stood  a  moment  watching  them,  with  her 
throat  swelling,  her  eyes  dilating,  the  furniture  of  the 
room  and  the  figures  of  the  man  and  the  woman  in  it 
spinning  slowly  round  like  puppets  in  a  show.  She  had 
some  knitting  in  her  hand,  which  she  held  out  with  a  dim 
idea  of  asking  a  question  about  it,  and  so  getting  away. 

She  had  dropped  a  stitch,  she  said,  in  a  strained  voice, 
strange  even  to  herself. 

Then  there  came  the  roaring  of  a  great  ocean  in  her 
ears,  and  the  next  moment  Flower-o'-the-Corn  dropped 
insensible  upon  the  floor. 


XIX 

THE    MARKET    RATE    OF    FOLLY 

A  ND  at  the  sight  all  suddenly  the  being  of  Maurice 

l\  Raith  was  changed  within  him.  He  had  tried 
X  ^  to  screen  himself  before,  now  he  cared  nothing 
for  self.  An  animal  made  comfortable,  purring  and  arch- 
ing its  back  with  content,  was  suddenly  changed  to  a  man 
who  knows  that  he  has  been  duped. 

Letting  go  the  girl  he  had  kissed  the  moment  before, 
he  ran  to  Flower-o'-the-Corn,  who  had  fallen  chill  and 
limp  upon  the  floor.    Yvette  followed  him. 

"  No,  you  shall  not  touch  her !  I  dare  you  to  touch 
her!  "  he  cried,  starting  up  suddenly,  why  he  knew  not. 

He  was  holding  the  slender  form  in  his  own  strong 
arms,  determinedly,  almost  possessively.  The  black  dress 
scarce  clasped  her  more  closely  or  jealously. 

Yvette  Foy,  who  never  fought  so  well  as  in  a  losing 
cause,  affected  to  believe  that  he  had  suddenly  gone  mad, 
which  was  perhaps  true. 

"  Better  lay  the  preacher's  daughter  down,"  she  said, 
quietly  and  yet  with  determination  like  that  of  a  nurse 
taking  command  of  a  patient;  "  she  has  heard  what  I  said 
about  her.  father.  After  all,  as  I  told  you,  she  is  not  to 
blame.  And  she  shall  not  sufifer.  I  promise  you  that. 
It  was,  indeed,  solely  for  her  cause  that  I  have  been 
silent  so  long." 

"  No,  no,"  panted  Maurice  Raith,  holding  the  uncon- 
scious girl  the  closer  in  his  arms,  "  that  has  nothing  to 
do  with  it.  It  cannot  have.  It  is  not  true.  I  have  listened 
too  long  to  lying  words.  You  shall  not  touch  her.  I 
will  take  her  away — I  myself,  Maurice  Raith.     I  am  a 

164 


MARKET    RATE    OF    FOLLY      165 

brother  officer  of  her  father's,  I  tell  you.  He  is  no  trai- 
tor, but  the  chaplain  of  a  British  regiment — Ardmillan's. 
I  will  be  responsible  for  his  honesty." 

"  Doubtless,  doubtless,"  purred  the  accuser,  "  and  in 
the  meantime  for  that  of  his  daughter  also!  These  things 
are  best  judged  of  by  young  aide-de-camps  of  my  Lord 
Marlborough's.  They  have  had  experience  of  many 
honesties — even  as  their  master  hath,  or  he  is  sore  be- 
lied." 

"  Her  father  committed  Mistress  Frances  to  my  charge 
before  he  went  away,"  said  Maurice,  still  holding  the  girl 
jealously  in  his  arms.  "  As  for  you,  you  have  made  me 
ashamed  before  her — why,  I  do  not  know.  She  will 
never  think  well  of  me  again!  " 

Yvette  Foy  began  to  laugh  uncertainly. 

"  I  only  tried  to  be  as  kind  to  you  as  I  knew  how  to 
be — if  that  be  any  fault,  as  it  seems  to  be  with  you  all  of 
a  sudden!  But — well — I  have  never  expected  or  expe- 
rienced anything  but  injustice  and  ingratitude  all  my 
life.  So  why  should  I  look  for  anything  else  now  from  a 
stranger  and  a  man  ?  " 

But  her  words,  the  admired  disorder  of  her  dress  and 
hair,  even  the  pitiful  squaring  of  her  mouth,  all  fell  dead 
upon  the  compassion  of  Maurice  Raith  with  the  warmth 
of  Flower-o'-the-Corn's  body  striking  slowly  through  to 
his  breast. 

"  I  tell  you,  I  will  take  her  away  from  here,"  he  stam- 
mered, hotly ;  "  it  is  not  fit  that  she  should  dwell  in  the 
same  house  as  you!  " 

"  I  remind  you  it  is  midnight  and  a  storm,"  she  said; 
"  the  girl  is  insensible  from  shock.  She  does  not  go  of 
her  own  accord.  It  will  be  an  action  so  manly — so  Brit- 
ish, to  take  her  away  in  that  condition  from  her  only  pro- 
tector. And  besides,  houses  are  not  so  easily  found  in  a 
village  and  at  this  hour!  " 

The  irony  would  have  daunted  many  a  wiser,  many  an 
older  man.  But  there  was  in  Maurice  Raith  a  conscious- 
ness of  right  intent,  and  the  fear  that  the  girl  who  had  so 


1 66        FLO  WER-O'-THE-CORN 

easily  entrapped  himself  would  not  scruple  to  exercise 
her  wiles  on  the  mind  of  Frances  Wellwood,  that  he  was 
resolved  at  all  hazards  to  take  her  away,  and  hold  him- 
self responsible  to  her  father  upon  his  return. 

He  moved  toward  the  door  with  his  burden.  Yvette 
Foy  stood  in  front  of  him. 

"You  shall  not,"  she  said;  "she  is  my  guest.  Her 
character  would  be  lost  if  she  left  this  house  with  you, 
and  in  such  a  manner." 

"  Stand  out  of  my  way,  I  say,  madam,"  cried  Maurice, 
furiously;  "  the  character  of  Mistress  Wellwood  needs  no 
other  defender,  in  the  absence  of  her  father,  than  Cap- 
tain Raith.  Her  father  left  her  in  his  own  hired  house, 
and  he  gave  me  alone  the  right  to  protect  her.  I  will 
take  her  there,  and  woe  betide  the  man  or  woman  who 
stands  in  our  way!  " 

"Father!  Father!"  cried  Yvette  Foy,  suddenly  lift- 
ing up  her  voice,  lamentably,  "  help — help,  I  beseech 
you,  help!  " 

And  from  some  chamber  where  he  had  been  preparing 
himself  for  the  repose  of  the  night,  Martin  Foy  flung  him- 
self into  the  room,  having,  like  the  old  soldier  he  was, 
taken  time  to  arm  himself  with  his  great  Walloon  sword, 
that  he  might  be  the  more  ready  to  succor  his  daughter 
in  her  need. 

"  Yvette,  you  cried — what  is  it,  dearest?  "  said  the  old 
man,  standing  in  his  turn  aghast  at  the  sight  of  Maurice, 
supporting  the  insensible  Frances  in  his  arms. 

"  That  man  hath  insulted  us,"  she  cried,  pointing  to 
Maurice  Raith;  "  he  hath  spoken  evil  things — things  that 
a  young  girl  ought  not  to  hear.  Look — look!  She  has 
no  longer  any  life  or  power  to  resist.  He  would  carry 
her  away  from  this  place  against  her  will.  So,  being 
afraid,  I  cried  to  you,  my  father!  You  will  not  fail  me, 
I  know!  " 

Old  Martin  Foy  stamped  on  the  ground  with  the  old- 
fashioned  fencer's  clack,  which  had  not  then  gone  out  of 
date. 


MARKET    RATE    OF    FOLLY      167 

"  Hold,  villain!  "  he  cried,  "  stand  still  where  you  are. 
Put  the  girl  down,  or  by  Saint  Anthony,  I  will  stap  three 
feet  of  good  Ypres  steel  through  your  black  vitals !  Do 
you  hear  me?  Down  with  the  girl!  You  are  in  Martin 
Foy's  house.    Do  as  he  bids  you!  " 

And  the  old  mustache  advanced  so  fiercely  that  there 
is  no  saying  what  might  have  happened  (Maurice  being 
encumbered  with  his  burden),  had  not  Billy  Marshall, 
hearing  the  sound  of  voices  in  high  dispute,  and  his  mas- 
ter's among  them,  come  running  upstairs  to  the  great 
living-parlor,  where  Yvette's  logs  (set  for  Maurice's 
comfort)  were  still  sparkling  and  glowing  on  the  hearth, 
as  olive  roots  will  long  after  they  are  wanted.  Billy  ar- 
rived in  some  haste,  taking  the  steps  three  at  a  time,  and 
bursting  in  upon  them  like  an  incursion  of  the  enemy 
at  the  sack  of  a  city.  The  gypsy  did  not  take  time  to 
have  the  situation  explained  to  him.  He  saw  his  mas- 
ter with  a  lovely  girl  in  his  arms.  That  needed  no  expla- 
nation. Even  so,  with  half  a  dozen  foes  to  withstand 
him,  and  only  one  good  friendly  Marshall  to  keep  the 
most  immediate  points  ofif,  he  had  in  his  time  borne 
away  Bet  (who  had  been  a  Faa,  and  by  no  means  so 
heavy  then  as  she  had  since  become),  so  much  to  her 
satisfaction,  that  she  had  ever  afterward  proved  herself 
a  loving,  faithful,  and  obedient  wife  to  him,  even  as  the 
law  of  the  land  requires. 

Therefore  Billy  took  no  severe  views  of  the  little  cir- 
cumstance of  finding  his  master  with  a  lady  in  his  arms. 
Rather  he  thought  the  better  of  him.  Next,  however,  he 
saw  a  man  with  a  yard-long  sword,  menacing  his  master, 
and  though  Billy  did  not  speak  French  he  understood 
very  well  the  language  of  deadly  threat.  The  sword  was 
what  Billy,  in  his  contempt  for  rapiers  and  all  blades 
which  were  not  made  for  both  cutting  and  thrusting, 
called  a  "  poking-stick."  Obviously,  however,  the  man 
was  threatening  his  master,  and  the  point  of  the  rapier 
was  very  near.  These  things  were  sometimes  sharp.  It 
mattered  nothing  that  the  man  was  known  to  him  as  the 


1 68        FLOWER-O'-THE-CORN 

owner  of  the  house.  If  Maurice  had  been  carrying  ofi 
Martin  Foy's  daughter  under  the  other  arm,  Billy  would 
have  stayed  just  as  short  a  time  to  debate  upon  the 
morality  of  the  proceeding.  He  simply  seized  the  first 
weapon  which  came  to  his  hand.  This  happened  to  be  an 
ornamental  chair,  brought  thither  by  Yvette  Foy,  and 
bottomed  with  wicker-work  of  the  rustic  sort.  With  this 
he  interposed  manfully  between  his  master  and  Martin 
Foy.  The  old  soldier  made  a  pass  at  him  as  the  more  im- 
mediate adversary,  and  the  point  of  the  Walloon  sword, 
passing  between  the  withes  of  the  seat,  narrowly  grazed 
the  back  of  Billy's  brawny  hand  which  grasped  the  chair 
at  the  most  convenient  point  for  both  ofifensive  and  de- 
fensive. 

The  next  moment  Martin  Foy  felt  his  hand  suddenly 
light  in  the  air.  The  Walloon  rapier  had  been  twisted 
bodily  out  of  his  fingers,  and,  while  he  stood  idly  won- 
dering what  had  happened,  Billy,  with  the  chair  thrown 
aside,  and  the  blade  glittering  in  his  hand,  was  asking 
for  orders  from  his  master.  "  Wtill  I  bide  and  stick  him 
while  ye  are  oxterin'  aif  the  lasses?  " 


But  the  desires  of  Maurice  Raith  were  neither  so  mur- 
derous nor  yet  so  generously  uxorious  as  Billy's  speech 
might  have  portended.  Instead,  he  ordered  Billy  to 
gather  up  his  belongings  and  follow  him. 

"  I'm  thinkin',"  said  the  gypsy,  shrewdly,  "  that  Billy 
Marshall  had  better  maybes  come  alang  wi'  ye  a  bittock, 
an'  gang  back  for  the  horses  and  the  bits  o'  duds  after. 
Bet  will  bide  where  she  is  till  I  bid  her  stir,  to  see  that 
nocht  is  stown  awa'.  An'  are  ye  sure,  na,  that  yc  arc  only 
wantin'  yin  o'  thae  lasses  f  " 

Being  reassured  on  this  point  (and,  indeed,  it  was  a 
great  relief  to  Maurice  to  reach  a  state  of  assurance  him- 
self), Billy  abruptly  bade  his  master  to  "  Gang  on,  then, 
wi'  the  wumman!"  while  he  himself  with  the  captured 
Walloon  "  poking-stick  "  kept  at  bay  the  master  of  the 


MARKET    RATE    OF    FOLLY     169 

auberge  of  the  Bon  Chretien,  and  (what  was  consid- 
erably more  difficuh)  his  daughter  also. 

Now,  Maurice  had  not  felt  the  weight  of  the  slight 
girlish  form  while  the  excitement  was  upon  him,  but  now 
as  he  descended  the  narrow  winding  stairs  of  the  inn,  and 
still  more  when  he  found  himself  facing  the  full  burst 
of  the  storm  over  the  naked  and  wind-swept  Gausses,  the 
beads  of  perspiration  burst  from  his  brow,  and  he  fronted 
the  headlong  rush  of  the  tempest  with  a  kind  of  fear  lest 
he  should  prove  unequal  to  the  task  he  had  taken  upon 
him. 

But  the  very  bitterness  of  the  blast  drove  the  oxygen 
into  his  lungs,  as  it  were,  in  a  compressed  state,  and  in  a 
trice  recovered  him. 

At  the  same  time  he  began  to  feel  slight  stirrings  and 
shiftings  of  position  in  the  burden  which  he  had  set  him- 
self to  carry.  And  with  these  came  Maurice's  first  qualm 
of  doubt  as  to  his  action,  quickly  mounting  into  fear  and 
shame,  so  that  even  in  the  bitter  Arctic  cold  of  the  Larzac 
night,  with  the  ground  white  with  frozen  snow  under- 
foot, he  felt  the  blood  rush  warm  and  red  to  his  brow. 

In  his  first  indignation  against  Yvette  Foy  he  had 
taken  Frances  Wellwood  from  what  might  prove  to  be 
her  only  home.  What  had  he  to  ofTer  her  in  exchange — 
especially  in  such  a  place?  Moreover,  the  vision  of  how 
she  had  seen  him  last,  came  back  to  him  through  that 
triple  armor  of  excellent  intentions  which  usually  sup- 
ports the  young  in  their  most  remarkable  and  extravagant 
actions. 

The  night  was  dark  in  itself,  but  lit  as  all  clear  nights 
of  the  Gausses  are,  with  an  infinite  multitude  of  stars. 
Across  the  north  toward  the  valley  of  the  Tarn,  and  arch- 
ing the  grim  Gausse  Noir  with  a  mural  crown  of  weird 
and  awful  greenness,  the  broadsword  of  the  Northern 
lights  flickered  and  smote. 

Maurice's  first  intention  was  to  make  his  way  toward 
the  gateways  of  the  Templars'  Gate.  At  either  the  east- 
ern or  the  western  one  he  would  surely  find  a  caretaker. 
At  least,  if  no  better  might  be,  poor  old  drunken  Elise. 


170        FLOWER-O'-THE-CORN 

La  Cavalerie  was  not  even  then  a  large  place,  and  Mau- 
rice with  his  burden  took  long  strides.  They  were  not 
long  in  arriving.  Both  houses  over  the  twin  gates  stood 
up  dark  and  cold.  But  upon  the  westernmost  doorway 
Billy  Marshall  thundered  with  a  sword  hilt — that,  indeed, 
of  the  despised  "  poking-stick  "  which  he  had  brought 
with  him  from  a  feeling  that  any  weapon  was  better  than 
none. 

It  was  some  time,  however,  before  he  produced  any 
effect,  and  in  the  meantime  the  continuance  of  the  slight 
but  unmistakable  movements  warned  Maurice  that  in  a 
few  moments  he  would  have  to  reckon,  not  only  with  the 
difficulty  of  providing  a  home  for  Frances  Wellwood, 
but  with  the  state  of  mind  in  which  that  young  lady 
should  find  herself  upon  returning  to  consciousness. 

Had  Maurice  possessed  the  experience  of  men  ancient 
and  wedded,  he  would  undoubtedly  have  leaned  his 
lovely  burden  against  the  nearest  door  and  clanged  the 
knocker  before  speeding  out  upon  the  waste.  But  Mau- 
rice was  young  and  ardent,  with  but  little  experience  of 
women.  Fortified  by  Billy  Marshall  and  over-confident 
in  the  power  of  his  own  persuasiveness,  he  vaingloriously 
stood  his  ground. 

At  last  the  little  wicket  door,  which  as  usual  opened 
in  the  midst  at  about  the  height  of  a  man's  head,  was  cau- 
tiously drawn  ajar.  A  red  and  bloated  visage  appeared 
thereat. 

"Open  and  admit  your  mistress!"  commanded  Mau- 
rice, whose  temper  had  not  been  improving  as  his  arms 
grew  more  weary. 

"  I  am  my  own  mistress,  and  this  is  my  house,"  re- 
sponded the  woman,  with  a  drunken  tee-hee  of  laughter. 
"Take  yours  where  you  will;  I  will  have  none  of  them 
here!" 

"  But  this  is  Mademoiselle  Frances  Wellwood  come 
back  to  her  father's  house.  Admit  her  this  instant,  I  com- 
mand you!  " 

Maurice  was  rapidly  losing  his  temper. 


MARKET    RATE    OF    FOLLY      171 

"Canny,  canny,  sir,  wi'  a  drucken  woman!"  coun- 
selled Billy,  over  his  master's  shoulder. 

But  Maurice  had  little  more  time  to  make  up  his  mind. 
The  movements  which  had  been  no  more  than  involun- 
tary stirrings,  evincing  a  lack  of  ease  and  general  discon- 
tent, became  the  convulsive  strivings  of  a  woman  trying 
to  loose  herself  from  constraint. 

"Where  am  I?  Where  am  I?"  cried  Flower-o'-the- 
Corn,  hysterically,  "set  me  down!     Who  are  you?" 

For  once  Maurice  Raith,  aide-de-camp  to  my  Lord 
Marlborough,  had  his  hands  quite  sufificiently  full.  He 
decided  first  to  get  the  door  open,  and  with  a  furious  ex- 
pression he  ordered  the  old  woman  at  the  wicket  to  undo 
the  bolt  at  her  life's  peril. 

*  But  she,  being  at  that  point  of  excessive  virtue  only 
reached  by  the  nine-tenths  drunk,  now  raised  her  voice  in 
exuberant  protest. 

"  No  man,"  she  averred,  "  shall  come  to  my  well-doing, 
well-deserving,  well-considered  house  at  this  time  of  the 
night  in  order  to  foist  houseless  young  women  upon  me. 
Madame  Elise  is  my  name — one  well  known  and  reputed 
in  the  whole  village  of  La  Cavalerie  for  over  forty 
years- 


At  this  point  Billy  suddenly  thrust  the  Walloon  blade 
through  the  wicket  with  the  idea  of  jamming  it,  and  so 
by  the  introduction  of  an  arm,  forcing  an  entrance  into 
the  house.    But  his  scheme,  excellent  in  itself,  miscarried. 

There  was  a  spare  grating  of  which  he  knew  nothing 
in  the  inside,  which  now  shut  with  a  spring,  and  lo!  the 
Walloon  "  poking-stick  "  justified  its  reputation  by  snap- 
ping close  to  the  guard  and  leaving  nothing  but  the  hilt 
in  Billy  Marshall's  hand. 

The  wicket  went  to  with  a  determined  clang,  and  from 
the  soft  subsiding  hush  which  came  from  behind  it,  it 
seemed  probable  that  the  defender  of  the  citadel  had 
quietly  succumbed  to  the  joint  effects  of  her  own  unaided 
valor  and  the  courage  so  long  denominated  Dutch. 

But  Maurice  had  no  time  to  think  of  her. 


172        FLOWER-O'-THE-CORN 

Frances  Wellwood  was  standing  before  him — the  cloak 
in  which  he  had  hastily  wrapped  her  fallen  from  her  shoul- 
ders, and  her  eyes  in  the  darkness  flashing  like  those  of 
Yvette  Foy  herself. 

"  I  demand  to  be  told  where  I  am,  and  why  I  am  in  this 
place?  "  she  said. 

She  had  her  feet  on  the  ground  by  this  time,  but  not 
having  yet  fully  recovered,  she  swayed  a  little.  Mau- 
rice's arm  went  instinctively  about  her.  She  shrank 
away  from  his  touch  as  from  a  personal  defilement. 

"  No,  no!  "  she  cried,  the  fierce  wind  of  the  Gausses 
whipping  a  kind  of  memory  into  her  mind  by  the  very 
tingling  chill  of  her  lips  and  cheek;  "  go  back  to  her!  I 
have  nothing  to  say  to  you — to  either  of  you!  And  why 
have  you  brought  me  here?  It  is  night.  Is  it  always  to 
be  night?  It  was  night  when — when — I  saw  you!  Oh! 
• — (she  stamped  her  foot) — go  away  from  me.  I  cannot 
bear  the  sight  of  you,  I  tell  you — go!  " 

"  Will  the  collean  no  turrish?  Will  the  quean  no  gang 
quaite  ?  "  whispered  Billy  Marshall  under  his  breath ; 
"  will  we  hae  to  gie  her  a  touch  o'  the  black-thorn,  think 
ye?    I  mind  when  Bet " 

"  Hold  your  tongue,  sirrah,  or  you  will  drive  me  crazy," 
cried  Maurice,  suddenly. 

"Ye  micht  do  waur,"  urged  Billy;  "there  was  Bet 
wad  never  hae  pitten  her  mind  to  do  it  quaite-like  but 
for  a  knap  or  twa  ower  the  croon  wi'  the  black-thorn,  the 
bonny  mither  o'  the  slae!  Better  sune  nor  syne — I'm  ad- 
visin'  ye  for  your  guid !  " 

Flower-o'-the-Corn  stood  a  moment,  the  hair  blowing 
about  her  face.  She  put  up  her  hand  a  time  or  two  to 
clear  her  eyes.  Her  thin  black  dress,  wind-driven, 
clipped  her  ankles  tightly. 

"  This  is  my  father's  house — my  house,"  she  said,  with 
an  air  of  relief.  "  I  will  go  in.  No — I  thank  you!  "  she 
added,  as  Maurice  approached  to  assist  or  warn  her. 

She  rapped,  first  timidly,  and  then  louder  upon  the 
door.    The  wicket  flew  open  again,  and  such  a  torrent  of 


MARKET    RATE    OF    FOLLY     173 

abuse  and  evil  language  poured  out  upon  the  night  that 
Flower-o'-the-Corn  set  her  hands  to  her  ears  with  in- 
stinctive horror,  and  fairly  turned  and  ran  out  upon  the 
waste.    A  sentinel  started  forward  in  her  path, 

"Do  not  fire,  I  bid  you!"  cried  Maurice  loudly,  in 
French.  He  ran  after  the  girl,  but  she  turned  upon  him 
with  all  the  desperation  of  a  gentle  thing  cornered  and 
fighting  for  its  life.  She  drew  a  skcan  dhu  from  her  gar- 
ter, and  threatened  herself  with  it  as  he  approached. 

"  Do  you  hear?  Do  you  hear?  "  she  cried.  "  I  swear 
it — by  my  father's  God,  who  will  forgive  me!  If  you 
touch  me  or  so  much  as  make  one  step  forward  nearer 
to  me,  I  will  kill  myself  with  this  knife." 

They  were  close  together.  The  wide  barren  Gausses 
were  white-sprinkled  with  sparse  snow.  The  green 
pulsing  of  the  aurora  came  more  and  more  fitfully  from 
behind  the  hills.  Maurice  could  see  it  gleam  on  the  blade 
of  the  knife  which  Frances  held  to  her  throat  and  on 
the  whites  of  her  eyes. 

He  hesitated,  and  in  that  moment  Flower-o'-the-Gorn 
had  turned  and  fled  away  across  the  glooming  wastes, 
toward  the  barren  crater-like  ridge  where  Maurice  had 
made  his  first  camp. 

The  young  man  stood  petrified,  while  Billy  Marshall  at 
his  back  whispered,  "  Aye,  aye,  maybes  noo  ye'll  attend 
to  what  I  say  the  neist  time!  Had  ye  gi'en  her  a  knap 
wi'  the  rung  in  time,  there  wad  hae  been  nane  o'  this 
traikin'  an'  gallivantin'  aneath  the  fower  winds  o' 
heaven!  Na,  juist  yae  wee  bit  persuasion  the  first  nicht, 
an'  Bet  (though  as  rank  a  Faa  as  ever  steppit)  has  been 
a'  her  life  the  douce,  weel-conduckit,  sonsy,  obedient 
woman  ye  ken  the  day!  " 

In  the  meantime  Maurice  stood  outside  the  town  gate, 
Billy  Marshall  at  his  right  hand,  an  amazed  Camisard 
sentry  watching  events  with  black  doubts  of  his  com- 
mander's honesty  rising  in  his  heart,  while  over  the  vast 
green-lit  levels  of  the  Gausse  Flower-o'-the-Gorn  sped 
unchecked  into  the  darkness  and  chill  of  a  winter's  night. 


XX 

THE    MYSTERY    OF   THE    CRYSTAL 

MAURICE  stood  for  a  long  minute,  dazed  and 
drunken  with  a  great  astonishment.  Billy 
was  at  his  elbow  with  the  best,  but  most  un- 
workable, counsels  as  to  how  to  treat  colleens  who,  to 
their  own  disadvantage,  refused  to  "  turrish."  But  all 
could  not  encourage  or  console  Maurice  Raith.  By  his 
own  folly  he  had  sent  into  deadly  danger  the  only  girl  he 
ever  loved. 

So,  at  least,  he  told  himself,  while  Billy  Marshall  con- 
tinued to  remind  him  that  he  had  told  him  so,  and  the 
Camisard  sentinel  by  the  gate  solemnly  resumed  his  beat, 
as  if  washing  his  hands  of  the  whole  matter. 

"  The  lassie's  gane,  that's  undooted,"  said  Billy,  with 
belated  penetration ;  "  an'  sae  far  as  I  can  see,  ye  hae 
sma'  chance  o'  gettin'  her  back  by  standin'  sumphin' 
there.  Gin  ye  had  ta'en  my  advice  an'  brocht  awa'  the 
baith  o'  them,  yin  wad  hae  balanced  the  ither.  I  mysel' 
hae  often  fand  it  that  wey  in  the  carryin'  o'  boxes — no  to 
speak  o'  percels  !  " 

To  no  part  of  this  did  Maurice  deign  to  answer,  save 
to  the  indubitable  fact  that  the  girl  was  gone,  declaring 
that  the  best  they  could  do  was  to  take  counsel  together 
and  decide  what  had  better  be  done  to  get  her  back.  It 
was  a  freezing  night,  with  a  light  drift  of  snow  blowing, 
and  the  surface  of  the  Causse  hard  as  the  nether  mill- 
stone. 

No  tracks  would  lie  for  a  minute  upon  such  a  night, 
and  they  must  do  the  best  they  could  with  the  senses 
God  had  given  them — which,  as  Maurice  thought  with 

174 


MYSTERY  OF  THE  CRYSTAL     175 

some  reason,  were  in  his  case,  at  least,  no  great  matter 
for  boasting. 

.  La  Cavalerie  lies  high — on  the  very  ridge  and  back- 
bone of  the  Larzac.  No  wind  blows  but  searches  it  like 
a  sieve.  From  verge  to  horizon  verge  there  is  no  cover 
the  height  of  a  gooseberry  bush,  and  even  the  earthen 
ramparts  which  the  Camisards  had  thrown  up,  though 
no  more  than  a  foot  or  two  in  height,  actually  afforded 
some  shelter  to  the  village  from  the  piercing  winds. 

Yet  it  was  on  such  a  night,  in  a  thin  black  dress  of 
some  soft  stuff,  that  Flower-o'-the-Corn  had  fled  out 
into  the  darkness  of  the  bleakest,  though  not  the  highest, 
Causse  in  France. 

If  it  would  have  done  Frances  Wellwood  the  least 
good  Maurice  Raith  would  gladly  have  put  a  pistol  to 
his  head  there  and  then  and  shot  himself  out  of  hand. 
But  he  knew  that  the  girl  was  gone  on  his  account,  and 
it  was  his  duty  to  bring  her  back,  if  possible. 

A  thought  occurred  to  him.  At  the  time  it  seerned 
like  an  inspiration.  Of  course  it  was  an  impossibility, 
a  thing  to  be  laughed  at,  yet,  nevertheless,  somehow  he 
could  not  get  it  out  of  his  head. 

"  Catinat !  Yes,  Catinat !  "  Stranger  things  had  hap- 
pened. There  might  be  something  in  his  second  sight 
after  all.  He  had  heard  of  it  in  Scotland.  At  least  it 
was  worth  the  trying ! 

"  Let  us  go  and  knock  up  Catinat !  "  he  said,  hoarsely. 

To  his  surprise  Billy  caught  eagerly  at  his  sugges- 
tion. 

"  Ye  hae  mair  sense  than  I  lookit  for,"  he  cried ;  "  if 
ony  body  can  jalloose  where  the  daft  lassie  wull  hae  hid- 
den hersel',  it's  him.  I  hae  heard  tell  that  when  he  was 
a  youngster  amang  the  laddie-boys  he  was  a  gye  yin! 
That  was  afore  he  took  up  wi'  the  prophetin'  an'  sic- 
like  !  Catinat's  the  verra  man  for  ye,  that  is,  if  ye  can 
get  baud  o'  him.  But  he  is  mair  like  to  tak'  ye  through 
a  word-for-word  exposeetion  o'  the  Bulk  o'  Solomon 
his  Sang,  than  to  help  ye  to  get  back  your  ain  sweet- 
heart !     Aye,  a  deil  sicht  mair  like !  " 


176        FLOWER-O'-THE-CORN 

Nevertheless,  since  the  thing  was  worth  trying,  to 
Catinat  they  went.  It  was,  as  Billy  had  prognosticated, 
somewhat  difficult  to  get  the  prophet  down  to  business. 

The  minister's  daughter  had  run  away  in  a  fit  of  fear 
and  that  hysterical  nervousness  which  comes  so  easily 
to  woman.  Well,  he  had  heard  of  such-like,  but  there 
was  no  exact  parallel  for  it  in  the  Scriptures  that  he 
knew  of,  unless  it  were  in  the  Song  of  Songs,  which  is 
Solomon's 

"  Didna  I  tell  ye  ? "  whispered  Billy,  triumphantly, 
over  his  chief's  shoulder. 

"  For  there  we  hear  tell  of  the  Shullamite  that  went 
about  seeking  her  love  until  she  should  find  him — 
though  in  this  instance  I  understand  that  the  similitude 
does  not  apply.  But,"  he  turned  sharply  upon  the  mili- 
tary chief  of  La  Cavalerie,  "  answer  me  this  before  I 
touch  the  matter  with  tip  of  finger — lies  anything  of 
stain  upon  your  conscience,  aught  that  you  would  be 
more  loath  to  tell  to  the  girl's  father  than  to  me?  " 

"Nothing,  I  swear  it!"  said  Maurice,  lifting  up  his 
hand  solemnly. 

"  Swear  not  at  all,"  said  Catinat,  catching  him  up  by 
the  wrist  and  putting  his  hand  down  again.  '*  What  is 
a  man  but  his  naked  word?  If  I  had  not  believed  in 
your  honesty,  would  I  have  permitted  these  poor  sheep 
to  obey  you  for  so  much  as  an  instant  ?  Would  I  not 
have  done  unto  you  even  as  did  Ehud  in  the  summer  par- 
lor at  Gilgal?  But  I  did  not.  Because,  though  I  dis- 
cerned that  there  was  lightness  in  your  thoughts — yea, 
lighter  than  the  wool  of  the  first  fleecing  of  the  rams  of 
Nebaioth,  vain  with  the  vanity  of  the  men  that  gathered 
to  Jephthah  in  the  land  of  Tob,  yet  for  all  that  I  said 
within  me,  '  This  is  a  true  man — this !  '  " 

And,  having  come  to  a  standstill  at  this  point,  Maurice 
Raith,  who  was  all  on  fire  within,  demanded  of  the 
prophet  if  he  could  tell  where  at  that  moment  the  girl 
was. 

Catinat  looked  at  Maurice  and  shook  his  head.     Then 


MYSTERY  OF  THE  CRYSTAL      177 

he  glanced  at  Billy  Marshall  and  asked,  "  Is  he  innocent 
— that  is  to  say,  simple — like  his  look  and  speech?  Or 
is  he  even  as  other  men,  come  up  from  beneath  the 
grinding-wheels  ?  " 

"  He  is  even  as  other  men !  "  said  Maurice,  wonder- 
ingly. 

"  Then  he  will  not  do  for  me,  any  more  than  you,"  he 
answered.  "  I  have  not  the  second  sight  myself,"  he 
went  on  to  explain,  "  as  it  is  said  that  your  Scots  moun- 
tainards  have,  but  only  the  power  of  making  others  see 
— though,  I  own,  not  as  Cavalier  hath,  who  can  make  a 
thousand  men  and  women  see  and  believe  the  thing  he 
will.  Yet,  abide  you,  I  will  bring  one  who  will  see  all 
your  desire !  " 

Catinat  dwelt  m  a  plain-faced  little  house  with  one 
gable  to  the  main  road,  mean  and  poor,  with  pig-runs 
below ;  and  so,  betaking  himself  to  the  door,  he  went 
across  the  court  and  returned  shortly  with  a  half-grown 
lad,  his  sleepy  eyes  starting  from  his  head,  his  hair  a  mere 
haystack,  his  lower  lip  dropped  into  the  shape  of  a  V, 
slack  and  pendulous,  yet  always  more  or  less  on  the 
quiver,  like  jelly  turned  from  a  shape.  He  appeared  to 
be  about  seventeen  or  eighteen,  knock-kneed  and  need- 
ing weekly  additions  to  his  small-clothes.  Of  his  sim- 
plicity there  could  be  no  question.  Indeed,  Catinat  ex- 
plained the  matter  of  his  want  in  his  own  presence  in 
plain  set  phrases. 

"  This  is  one  Antoine  Oliver — a  mere  idiot,  an  inno- 
cent, almost  a  cretin,  but  left  here  by  the  Spanish  gyp- 
sies ;  therefore  not  to  be  trusted  alone  with  silver  or  gold  ! 
Otherwise  he  hath  not  the  sense  to  conduct  himself 
reasonably.     Antoine,  turn  round  !  " 

The  oaf  turned  himself  unwillingly  about,  like  one 
about  to  be  whipped  in  the  presence  of  his  school-fel- 
lows. A  patch  of  viscous  orange  appeared  vividly  im- 
pressed on  the  broadest  part  of  his  small-clothes. 

"There!"  cried  Catinat,  "what  did  I  tell  you?  Go 
fetch  the  rod,  Antoine — the  rod  of  many  birches  which 


1 78        FLO  WER-O'-THE-CORN 

stands  behind  the  henhouse  door.  You  have  been  at 
it  again !  Gentlemen,  this  boy  at  certain  hours  of  the 
day  or  night  by  a  certain  strange  access  of  folly  takes 
himself  for  a  brooding  fowl,  and  will  sit  on  as  many  as 
two  dozen  eggs  at  once — yes,  now  when  they  are  at 
their  dearest,  and  a  hennery  is  next  in  value  to  a  gold 
mine.  For  this  he  hath  oft  been  punished  by  me  and 
shall  be  again." 

The  great  oaf  burst  out  into  a  loud  boo-hoo  of  lament. 

"  Indeed,  sir,"  he  pleaded,  "  they  were  not  your  eggs 
this  time,  yours  are  much  richer  in  yolk !  Look  you, 
they  are  those  of  old  Elise  at  the  Gatehouse,  whom  I 
desired  to  punish  for  her  drunkenness." 

"  The  point  is  well  taken,"  said  Catinat,  "  but  I  will 
only  consent  to  overlook  the  fault  if  so  be  that  you  will 
search  in  the  crystal  for  me." 

The  youth  gave  a  yet  louder  cry  and  promptly  began 
to  untruss. 

"  I  would  rather  have  the  birch,"  he  said,  "  the  birch 
smarts  and  is  done  with ;  but  after  the  crystal  ball  An- 
toine  is  not  his  own  man  for  as  many  as  three  days." 

"  He  hath  probably  hit  on  the  truth  there,"  whispered 
the  prophet. 

"  But,  Antoine,"  said  Catinat,  aloud,  in  a  soothing 
voice,  "  see  this  man.  He  is  the  commander  of  the  sol- 
diers here,  and  can  keep  them  from  taking  you  away  to 
serve  in  the  trenches.  Also  I  will  let  you  ofif  from  a 
whole  week  of  attendance  at  early  service  in  the  church. 
Also " 

He  displayed  a  silver  coin  suggestively  in  the  lamp- 
light. 

"  I  will  do  it — I  will  do  it !  "  cried  the  lad ;  "  give  me 
the  crystal,  and  I  will  speak  the  thing  I  see.  But  first 
tell  me  what  is  it  I  am  to  look  for — and  where !  " 

"  Look  along  the  face  of  the  Gausses  to  the  north," 
said  Catinat,  calmly,  laying  his  hand  on  the  boy's  rough 
head.  He  passed  his  long  sensitive  fingers  this  way  and 
that  over  it,  and  lo !  an  erect  and  bristling  crest  followed 


MYSTERY  OF  THE  CRYSTAL     179 

the  direction  of  his  hand  even  when  the  fingers  did  not 
touch  the  actual  hair. 

"'  I  see  them,"  said  the  boy,  his  eyes  on  the  globe  of 
solid  crystal  long  buried  in  the  deeps  of  the  gouffrc  of 
Padirac,  waterworn  and  rounded,  and  now  polished  with 
rouge  and  the  friction  of  the  palm  of  the  hand,  the  two 
best  polishers  in  the  world. 

"  They  are  white  and  gray,  and,  oh,  so  cold ! "  he  said, 
shuddering. 

"  Look  closer — closer  still,  good  Antoine,"  com- 
manded Catinat ;  "  you  see  no  person — no  living  creat- 
ure ?  " 

"  I  see  a  wolf — two  wolves — no,  a  pack !  "  he  cried, 
eagerly. 

Maurice  would  have  sprung  to  his  feet  and  run  out 
as  he  was.     But  this  Catinat  would  in  no  wise  permit. 

"  No,"  he  said,  soothingly,  "  it  is  often  thus.  It  may 
not  be  so  after  all.  They  often  see  wolves  and  wild 
beasts  at  first — that  which  comes  readiest.  Do  not  be 
alarmed.  We  shall  get  at  the  root  of  the  matter  before 
long,  and  that  directly." 

He  pressed  his  hand  lightly,  but  compelHngly,  on  the 
back  of  the  boy's  neck,  forcing  his  head  downward  till 
his  eyes  were  within  six  inches  of  the  crystal. 

"  Now  tell  me  what  you  see  ;  observe  carefully !  Fol- 
low the  line  of  the  Gausses  toward  Saint  Veran  and  the 
luggage-cradle.     What  do  you  see  ?  " 

"  I  see  two  men — no,  a  woman  and  a  man,"  said  the 
boy,  dropping  into  an  even  pained  voice ;  "  they  are 
talking  together  eagerly.  She  has  much  to  tell  him.  He 
holds  her  under  his  cloak — holds  her  closely,  thus." 

Again  Maurice  was  making  for  the  door,  but  Catinat 
checked  him  with  a  look  and  a  shake  of  the  head. 

"  He  is  a  cretin,  I  tell  you,"  he  said,  "  do  not  expect 
too  much.  We  shall  get  at  the  truth  presently  if  we  do 
not  hurry  him." 

"  There,  I  have  lost  them  ;  the  man  was  in  a  soldier's 
uniform,  I  saw  him  plainly,"  cried  the  boy ;  "  like  the 


1 80        FLOWER-O'-THE-CORN 

men  who  came  last  year  and  tried  to  kill  us  all,  when 
poor  Antoine  hid  so  long  in  the  cowshed.  But  they 
have  gone  out  of  sight.  I  can  see  them  no  more.  Let 
me  go !  " 

At  this  moment  the  touch  of  Catinat  must  have  tight- 
ened either  in  actual  grip  or  in  electric  tension  on  the 
back  of  the  boy's  neck,  for  he  squeaked  like  a  mouse. 

"  I  will  look — I  will  speak  true.  I  will  look  all  the 
way  from  the  Millau  road  even  to  the  reservoir  of  Nant." 

"  Look,  then,  boy,  and  carefully ! "  said  Catinat,  and 
his  voice,  even  to  the  eager  Maurice,  sounded  wrapt  and 
far  away.  Billy  Marshall,  an  adept  and  past-master  in 
all  mysteries,  stood  silent,  wondering  what  new  sort  of 
hanky-panky  he  had  come  across — willing  to  be  in- 
structed, however,  but  still  unconvinced  that  one  touch 
of  the  sloe-thorn  shillelagh  in  time  would  not  have  saved 
at  least  nine  broken  crowns. 

The  boy  continued  to  gaze,  his  eyes  growing  fixed 
and  luminous  as  they  concentrated  themselves  on  the 
crystal  globe. 

"  Ah,  now  at  last  I  see  her,"  he  said,  wearily,  as  indeed 
he  did  everything.  "  She  is  alone,  in  a  black  dress,  run- 
ning sometimes  this  way  and  that,  and  sometimes  stand- 
ing and  holding  her  hand  to  her  breast " 

Maurice  gasped,  but  Catinat  remained  calm,  with  his 
hand  on  the  boy's  neck. 

"  Yes — yes,  good  boy,  Antoine,  you  speak  truth  this 
time.  It  will  not  last  long.  You  see  one  girl  alone,  you 
say,  her  hand  on  her  breast — no  French  officer  with  her, 
no  gang  of  wolves  ?     Good  boy,  good  boy !  " 

"  But  I  saw  these  other  two ;  yes,  I  saw  them,  even 
if  you  birch  me  for  it  I  saw  them  plainly." 

"Well,  never  mind  that — the  girl — the  girl  with  her 
hand  to  her  breast,"  said  Maurice,  eagerly,  "  what  was 
she  like?" 

The  boy  at  once  recognized  the  new  note  in  the  in- 
terrogative. 

"  What  is  that  to  you  ?  "  he  said,  regaining  with  a 


MYSTERY  OF  THE  CRYSTAL     i8i 

bound  his  native  siillenness.  There  was  almost  a  re- 
joicing note  in  his  voice,  as  having  chanced  upon  one 
whom  he  could  disobey  with  impunity.  Catinat  lifted 
a  dusting-switch  and  dealt  him  the  very  slightest  blow 
with  it  across  his  cheek,  so  light  that  many  a  caress  had 
been  heavier. 

"  The  pain  of  that  will  teach  you  ever  after  to  speak 
respectfully  to  those  who  are  my  guests  in  my  house," 
he  cried,  angrily.  "  It  smarts,  does  it  not,  worse  than 
the  birch?" 

"  Oh,  it  does,  it  does !  "  wailed  the  boy.  "  It  was  a 
fearful  blow.     Oh,  my  head,  my  head !  " 

Maurice  would  have  stepped  forward  to  save  the  boy, 
even  with  the  evidence  of  his  senses  that  a  feather  might 
have  dealt  a  harder  blow.  But  the  mere  suggestion  was 
enough  for  the  super-excited  state  of  the  boy's  mind. 

"  Go  on !  "  said  Catinat,  sternly,  "  we  have  no  time  to 
wait  all  night  on  you !  " 

The  boy  continued,  between  suppressed  sobs  of  dis- 
may and  pain. 

"  I  see  only  the  white  waste — I  cannot  see  the  girl — 
neither  the  one  with  the  hand  to  her  breast  who  waited 
and  looked  round — nor  the  other !  " 

"  There  was  no  other,"  said  Catinat,  firmly — "  nor  any 
wolves !  " 

"  Very  well,  then,"  said  the  boy,  wincing  away  with 
his  feather-smitten  cheek ;  "  she  was  not  there,  but  I 
thought  it.  Tell  me  what  I  am  to  think,  and  I  will  think 
it.     Are  you  not  my  master?  " 

"  No,"  said  Catinat,  severely,  "  tell  me  what  you  see, 
and  that  exactly.  Look  further  afield.  You  have  seen 
her  once.  You  have  seen  in  what  direction  she  was 
moving.     Look  again — or " 

"Oh,  I  will,  I  will"  (again  with  the  mouse-like  squeak). 
"  I  see  her  now — plainly  I  see  her.  She  is  within  the 
circle  of  the  Rochers  above  the  Dourbie,  near  where  the 
Saint  Veran  cradle  is  set  up.  She  is  sitting  on  a  rock 
and  looking  at  a  star.  She  is  rubbing  her  hands.  I 
think  she  is  very  cold." 


1 82         FLOWER-O'-THE-CORN 

"Has  she  a  cloak  about  her?"  said  Maurice,  anx- 
iously. 

The  natural  turned  his  head  uncertainly,  as  if  inquir- 
ing from  his  master  whether  he  was  required  to  answer 
extraneous  and  possibly  discomposing  questions,  but 
before  he  had  time  to  reply,  Billy  Marshall  came  in  with 
Maurice's  cloak  across  his  arm. 

"  Where  did  you  get  that  ?  "  cried  his  master. 

"  She,"  said  Billy,  with  a  strong  and  contemptuous 
accent  on  the  pronoun,  "  left  it  lying  on  the  ground  that 
she  might  run  frae  ye  the  faster !  Did  I  no  tell  ye  that 
I  was  richt?  A  wee  bit  knap  wi'  the  black-thorn — oh, 
it's  nocht  ava,  but  it  wad  hae  made  a'  the  differ !  And 
they  are  that  thankfu'  for  it  the  neist  mornin' !  Certes, 
an'  fond  o'  ye — ye  wadna  believe !  There's  Bet  has 
hardly  been  able  to  bear  me  oot  o'  her  sicht,  ever  since 
I  gied  her  the  bit  cloot  wi'  the  clickie  afore  puttin'  her 
to  her  bed.  The  thick  end  o'  a  guid  rung  is  the  best 
'  Sleep-ye-soond-bonny-bairnie  '  that  ye  will  get  in  ony 
apothecary's  hall.  And  no  yae  bawbee  to  pay  for  't ! 
Guid  kens,  it  kind  o'  mak's  them  wonderfu'  set  on  ye 
the  neist  mornin'  when  they  wauken  croose  and  gled 
that  it's  a'  by  wi' !  Bet  there  could  fair  hae  etten  me, 
she  was  that  pleased-like  wi'  me!  But  ye  wadna  tak 
puir  Billy's  advice.  Na,  he  kenned  nocht  aboot  wee- 
men,  an'  sae  it's  come  to  this !  " 

"  Well,"  said  his  master,  sternly,  "  take  the  cloak,  and 
what  arms  are  needful  and  follow  with  me  to  the  place 
where  the  wagons  were  captured " 

" '  Airms,'  says  he,  '  airms  an'  a  cloak,'  quo'  Billy 
Marshall!  What  do  ye  tak'  Billy  Marshall  for?  D'ye 
think  that  he  would  gang  twenty  yairds  ower  the  door 
in  siccan  an  unhamely  place  without  bringing  a'  the 
airms  that  are  committed  to  him — keepit  as  they  should 
be  keepit — and  wi'  the  poother  an'  ball  for  ilka  yin,  a' 
in  pooches  by  their  nainsels?  " 

And  at  the  word  the  gypsy  undid  his  belt  and  showed 
a  perfect  armament  of  pistols  and  short  swords — or 
hangers  as  they  were  then  called. 


MYSTERY  OF  THE  CRYSTAL     183 

"  Bet's  oot  there  wi'  the  muckle  guns  and  the  braid- 
swords  !  "  he  added. 

"How  do  you  know  that?"  demanded  Maurice, 
quickly. 

Billy  looked  at  him  shrewdly,  yet  a  trifle  sadly,  as  one 
who  had  failed  to  profit  by  the  opportunities  of  acquir- 
ing information  when  these  were  tendered  to  him. 

"  Hoo  do  I  ken  ?— Weel,  I  juist  ken,  that's  a' !  And 
ye  shall  prove  my  words  for  yoursel',  Maister  Maurice 
(I  canna  aye  be  mind-mindin'  your  ither  name),  and  gin 
ye  had  ta'en  my  advice  and  '  knappit '  your  bit  wench 
in  time,  she  wad  hae  been  lying  prood  and  snug  ayont 
ye  at  this  meenit,  instead  o'  freezin'  to  daith  oot  on  the 
wild  hills ! " 

"  Hold  your  accursed  tongue,  will  you?  "  cried  Mau- 
rice, infuriated ;  "  come  and  help  us  to  look." 

"  Dress  yourself  properly,  then,"  answered  Billy  ;  "  an' 
do  your  cloak  upon  you.  The  habit  you  wear  is  frozen 
stiff  and  is  only  summer  thick  at  any  rate !  " 

A  dish  of  cold  water  was  standing  on  a  little  dripping 
board,  at  which  some  former  married  tenant  of  Catinat's 
house  had  washed  dishes.  Catinat  seized  this  and 
dashed  the  contents  fair  in  the  face  of  the  seer.  The 
woolly-headed  boy  came  to  himself  with  a  start,  and 
would  have  dropped  the  crystal  had  not  the  Prophet 
snatched  it  out  of  his  lax  and  feeble  hands,  and  restored 
it  to  a  bag  of  faded  black  velvet,  through  the  unclosed 
seams  of  which  it  peeped  with  jewel-like  brilliance  of 
suggestion. 


XXI 

MADAME   LA    MARECHALE 

WHEN  Flower-o'-the-Corn  fled  out  upon  the 
waste  she  had  no  idea  of  what  she  would 
do,  save  to  put  as  much  distance  as  pos- 
sible between  herself  and  those  who  had  (in  her  opinion) 
wronged  her. 

Maurice  she  held  doubly  guilty.  For  though  he  was 
by  no  means  her  lover,  she  had,  at  least,  expected  other 
things  from  him.  And  now,  she  had  found  him — well, 
she  could  not  picture  to  herself  how  she  had  found  him 
for  the  pain  in  her  heart.  Besides,  had  he  not  crowned 
his  iniquity  by  carrying  her  off  literally?  She  had  been 
held  in  his  arms  at  the  very  moment  when  she  came  to 
herself.  And  as  for  Yvette  Foy,  how  could  any  girl  be 
so  false,  so  wicked?  Had  she  not  time  and  again  de- 
clared that  this  Pierre  the  Wagoner,  this  young  man 
who  had  brought  the  message  to  the  village,  was  a  trai- 
tor double-dyed  ?  And  had  she  not  ? — Again  there  came 
the  shooting  pain — the  burning,  uprising  shame!  Oh! 
were  there  no  true  folk  at  all  in  the  world,  women  or 
men?  Except  her  father,  that  is?  She  did  not  doubt  him 
ever. 

She  clasped  her  hands  upon  each  other  even  as  An- 
toine  had  seen  her  in  the  crystal  stone,  and  they  were 
as  cold  as  ice.  Then,  all  at  once,  there  came  upon 
Flower-o'-the-Corn  a  wild  unreasoning  fear — the  terror 
of  pursuit.  She  seemed  to  be  followed  by  a  pack  of 
hounds  as  in  the  gray  fearful  dream-sleens  of  the  Indian 
Bhang-eater.  She  could  hear  their  yelping  chorus,  now 
higher  and  now  lower,  as  one  or  other  took  up  the  lead- 
ership. 

184 


MADAME  LA  MARECHALE     185 

She  turned  abruptly,  and  ran  on.  Perhaps  it  was  well 
she  did  so.  At  least,  the  action  kept  her  from  freezing 
to  death.  She  continued  thus  till  the  breath  was  almost 
out  of  her  body.  Before  her,  under  the  pulsing  green 
glow  of  the  aurora,  the  toothed  edges  of  the  volcanic 
crater  stood  up.  She  paused,  less  because  she  was  out  of 
breath  than  because  she  seemed  to  have  some  dim  sort  of 
previous  knowledge  of  the  place,  to  which,  all  unwitting, 
her  feet  had  carried  her. 

Once  she  heard  a  crying  as  of  wolves  across  the  waste, 
the  long-drawn  sneering  howl  which  (once  heard)  is 
never  forgotten.  Anything  less  like  the  "  giving  tongue  " 
of  a  pack  cannot  well  be  imagined. 

But  to  Frances  Wellwood,  who  had  that  night  supped 
so  full  of  terrors,  this  brought  no  new  anxiety,  though 
the  sound  would  have  sent  every  Caussenard  for  shelter 
to  the  nearest  house,  even  if  it  had  been  that  of  his  worst 
enemy. 

But  Flower-o'-the-Corn  stood  there,  only  conscious  of 
the  deadly  insult  and  shame  that  had  been  put  upon  her. 
The  bitter  upland  night,  the  frost-tingling  stars,  the  howl 
of  the  wolf-pack — these  were  as  nothing  to  the  pain  in 
her  heart. 

The  two  in  whom  she  had  been  learning  to  trust — one 
of  them  almost  in  spite  of  herself — had  betrayed  her. 
Her  house  of  cards  had  fallen.  She  could  never  trust  man 
or  woman  again.  And  then  the  words,  foul  and  horrible, 
spoken  before  all  these  men,  with  which  she  had  been 
pursued  from  her  own  door!  Was  it  true  what  the  bel- 
dame had  said  that  her  father  had  gone  without  paying 
his  rent?  Why  this  added  insult?  Yet  she  knew  the 
thing  might  very  well  be,  from  sheer  forgetfulness  and 
Patrick  Wellwood's  habitual  carelessness. 

But  Yvette  Foy  (that  thrice-wicked  deceiver)  had 
spoken  so  kindly  that  she  had  accompanied  her  without 
even  asking  a  question.  Perhaps  (who  knows)  the  hint  to 
refuse  admission  had  come  first  from  her. 

So  in  the  bitter  chill  of  the  night  Frances  Wellwood 


1 86        FLOWER-O'-THE-CORN 

meditated,  while  the  toothed  edges  of  the  Gausses  rose 
up  black  all  about  her,  and  the  great  limestone  shapes 
began  to  resemble  old  stumps  of  teeth  blanching  in  skele- 
ton gums.  Thus  she  was  sitting,  growing  slowly  chill 
and  chiller,  when  all  at  once  she  was  startled  by  the  sound 
of  uproarious  mirth  about  her. 

A  sudden  flashing  of  lanterns,  a  sudden  explosion  of 
laughter,  neither  very  wise  nor  very  kindly,  brought  the 
girl  to  herself.  Rough  hands  seized  her.  She  cried  out, 
and  the  first  words  she  spoke  were  a  confession  of  weak- 
ness. 

"Maurice,  Maurice!"  she  said  involuntarily.  And 
then  at  the  mere  sound  of  her  voice  she  started  to  recall 
the  gay  brightness  of  the  Brabant  corn  and  herself  stand- 
ing elbow  deep  in  it,  with  the  young  soldier  blushing  be- 
neath her,  his  hands  parting  the  yellow  broom. 

"  A  pretty  maid,  eh,  Joseph?  By  my  faith,  yes,"  cried 
one  rough-looking  soldier  with  great  bandoliers  across 
his  breast;  "  tell  me  that  you  do  not  believe  in  the  grotto 
of  the  fairies  after  this!  Why,  we  could  not  be  better  off 
if  we  were  farmers-general.  The  Marechal  himself,  with 
his  Madame  la  Marechale,  will  live  no  more  comfortably 
than  we!  Besides  which,  we  will  not  give  the  wench 
marching  leave  quite  so  often.  I  am  in  command  of  this 
party,  eh,  Joseph  ?  And  I  say — '  Keeps ! '  No  '  halvings  ' 
to  merchandise  of  this  sort.    No,  no!  " 

"  Nay,  old  scrubby  goat!  "  cried  another,  "  see,  the  lit- 
tle thing  is  a-cold.  Do  you  not  understand,  you  are  a 
brute  to  stand  there,  cloaked  to  the  gray  mustache  and 
never  ofifer  her  an  inch  of  shelter?  She  shall  come,  not 
an  inch  nearer  you,  but  to  the  kindest  of  the  company. 
Here,  my  pretty  one,  is  a  good  half  of  a  soldier's  cloak  to 
be  comfortable  in.  Aye,  many  a  pretty  lass,  many  a 
dainty,  hath  snuggled  down  there,  and  liked  very  well 
that  same  old  Brandenburg  redingote.  Come,  my 
pretty,  so !  " 

"I  tell  you  no!"  cried  another,  holding  up  his  lan- 
tern to  Flower-o'-the-Corn's  frightened  face  (for  now  she 


MADAME  LA  MARECHALE     187 

had  fallen  among  the  wolves  indeed),  "  neither  one  of  you 
has  the  least  claim.  E'en  let  the  maid  choose  for  herself. 
I  outrank  you  both,  for  the  matter  of  that,  since  I  carry 
the  colors!  You  have  nothing  but  huge  old  gray  mus- 
taches, an  odor  of  rum,  and  much  talk  of  what  you  have 
done  in  your  youth.  As  if  that  had  any  weight  with  a 
young  thing  fit  to  be  the  granddaughter  of  any  of  you! 
For  shame,  to  fright  a  child  so  with  your  rough  talk. 
Come  hither  to  me,  my  dear,  and  you  and  I  will  talk 
apart!  I  promise  you  none  of  them  shall  harm  you.  And 
you  shall  have  no  troublesome  questions  to  answer  either 
— such  as,  '  How  came  you  at  night  out  upon  the  wild 
Gausses  near  a  Camisard  haunt  of  rebels  and  traitors?  ' 
I  can  save  you  from  all  that.  Why  else  should  I  be  trusted 
with  the  banner  by  my  officer,  but  that  it  should  cover  an 
bosom  as  innocent  as  thine !  " 

"  Stand  out  of  the  way,  Victor  Cayet,"  cried  yet  an- 
other, abruptly,  shouldering  the  speaker,  his  lantern  and 
his  folded  banner  out  of  the  way.  "  I  tell  you  here  comes 
la  Marechale  herself!  And  it  is  as  much  as  our  heads 
are  worth  to  have  any  rough  jesting  in  her  presence." 

"  Tut!  As  to  that,  she  is  but  the  Lady  Marechale  of 
the  campaign,  I  warrant  you — think  you  de  Montrevel 
would  saddle  himself  in  perpetuity  with  a  Camisard 
wife?" 

"  Hush,  lads,  here  she  comes!  " 


"  Wretches,  assassins,  I  will  have  all  of  you  hanged  by 
the  Provost  Marshal,"  cried  a  richly  dressed  lady,  riding 
in  among  them  upon  a  white  horse  with  a  liberal  use  of 
whip  and  spur. 

"  Ah,  dear  lady,"  cried  one,  in  a  humble  whining  tone, 
"  that  is  by  no  means  how  you  should  treat  poor  sons  of 
the  Church.  Do  we  not  know  vour  ladyship  every  one?  " 

"  Aye,  verily!  "  cried  the  lady;  "  and  so  well  does  the 
lady  know  you  that  she  could  wager  the  last  Louis-d'or 


1 88        FLOWER-O'-THE-CORN 

in  her  pouch  that  you  talked  very  differently  five  min- 
utes ago  to  the  poor  girl  there,  whom  you  hold  your 
prisoner.    Stand  away — I  would  speak  to  her !  " 

"  Your  ladyship  will  allow  that  she  is  our  prisoner  of 
war,  and  stands  at  her  peril  amongst  us,  till  a  sum  is  paid 
in  ransom  to  us  poor  men!  " 

"  I  will  see  that  the  money  is  paid.  I  know  you, 
Joseph,  and  also  that  the  Marechal  hath  never  gotten  any 
good  of  you  or  the  like  of  you!  " 

"  Indeed,  my  lady,  I  speak  not  for  myself,"  said  the 
man,  "  but  as  Cornely  here,  the  standard-carrier,  well  re- 
marks, what  is  the  wench  doing  so  near  to  a  noted  rebel 
haunt — alone  and  on  foot?  " 

"  If  it  comes  to  that,  what  am  I  doing?  "  said  the  other, 
boldly.    "  Have  you  anything  to  reflect  upon  me?  " 

The  men  pushed  each  other  with  the  elbow,  and  at  last 
Cornely  spoke  up.    His  first  act  was  to  disavow  Joseph. 

"  This  man  Joseph  hath  done  nothing  but  speak  to  our 
hurt,"  he  began.  "  Inquire  of  the  girl  herself,  I  pray  you. 
Have  we  done  her  any  harm?  Or  have  I — who  have 
chiefly  spoken  with  her — offered  anything  but  kindness? 
She  will  remember  me,  because  I  held  my  lantern  close 
to  my  face  so  that  she  might  know  me  again.  By  this  she 
will  remember.  I  have  a  long  fair  mustache,  and  when 
rudeness  was  offered,  I  bade  all  'Stand  back!'  This  I 
did  because,  carrying  the  flag  of  the  King,  I  was  in  a 
sort  of  manner  o'  ways  in  command  here.  And  so  I  told 
them.  She  will  remember  me — ask  her,  a  man  with  a 
long  fair  mustache,  good  to  look  upon,  that  offered  her 
nothing  but  kindness " 

"  Oh,  have  done  with  the  eternity  of  your  clack !  "  cried 
the  lady,  who  had  dismounted  by  this  time.  "  While  you 
talk  the  girl  will  freeze  to  death.  It  is  a  cold  night  to  die 
in,  even  with  your  chances  of  the  everlasting  burning! 
Here,  Cornely,  since  you  are  so  prodigal  with  your 
favors,  lend  me  your  cloak.  You  have  another  at  Millau. 
I  know,  for  I  have  seen  you  swaggering  about  with  it 
a-Sundays." 


MADAME  LA  MARECHALE     189 

"  Your  ladyship  has  been  pleased  to  remark  me  in  it — 
a  blue  cloth  made  very  long,  lined  with  a  crimson  silk?  " 

"Remarked  you — yes — who  would  not?"  cried  the 
lady.     "  Aye,  and  spoken  of  it  to  the  Marshal,  too." 

"  Your  ladyship  is  too  kind,"  said  Cornely.  "  I  would 
I  had  it  here  that  I  might  spread  it  at  your  most  honored 
feet " 

"  The  other  will  do,  if  it  be  (as  it  looks)  but  a  horse- 
blanket  turned  inside  out.  Anything  to  wrap  the  shiver- 
ing girl  in,  out  of  the  chill  airs  of  these  Gausses.  And 
now  leave  us.  I  would  speak  to  her  a  moment.  There  is 
no  fear." 

"  Have  we  your  lady's  word  for  the  ransom?"  put  in 
Joseph,  who  was  still  spiteful  at  his  discomfiture. 

"  Word,  what  need  you  of  words?  "  flashed  Madame  la 
Marechale,  to  the  full  as  brusquely;  "  go,  take  your  arms 
and  retire  behind  the  rocks  yonder  for  a  quarter  of  an 
hour.  We  are  not  birds  of  the  air  that  we  can  fly.  Take 
your  posts  all  about  us,  if  you  will.  I  will  give  no  word. 
Who  am  I,  that  I  should  bandy  words  at  this  time  of 
the  day  with  such  cattle  as  you?  " 

"  Well,  a  prisoner  of  war  is  a  prisoner  of  war  in  these 
days,  so  be  she  is  pretty  and  young,"  said  Joseph,  bitterly; 
"  also  seeing  that  our  Marechal  is  what  he  is." 

The  lady  stamped  her  foot. 

"  For  the  last  time,  I  tell  you,  go  back!  Otherwise  I 
will  complain  to  the  Marechal — in  which  case  more  would 
embrace  the  whipping-post  at  Millau  than  would  miss 
their  chances  of  this  fair  prisoner  of  war.  Once  for  all, 
I  tell  you — go!  " 

The  men,  especially  those  of  Joseph's  faction,  withdrew 
grumbling,  but  not  daring  openly  to  disobey  the  Mare- 
chal's  lady. 

"  At  all  events,  I  will  make  sure  of  her  beast,  and  the 
other  hath  none,"  said  Joseph,  shrewdly,  leading  it  away 
and  leaving  the  Lady  Marechale  in  her  riding  habit  and 
furs  to  speak  with  the  shivering  girl,  who  was  by  this 
time  wrapped  in  Cornely's  cloak.    That  ornament  of  the 


1 90         FLOWER-O'-THE-CORN 

King's  irregular  forces  was  now  eagerly  watching  from 
behind  a  jagged  tooth  of  limestone  what  should  be  the 
fate  of  his  second  best  garment.  For,  as  he  put  it  to  all 
honest  and  fair-minded  men,  it  was  manifestly  impossible 
to  wear  a  thing  of  beauty  like  the  blue-clothed,  scarlet- 
lined  promenade  cloak  on  such  mad  midnight  rides  as 
their  leaders  had  been  taking  them  of  late  into  the  midst 
of  the  wild  Camisard  hills. 

"  Farther — stand  farther  back  there,  else  I  will  post 
you  for  a  set  of  eavesdroppers  and  thieves,  and " 

But  whatever  else  the  spirited  lady  had  to  say  was 
drowned  in  the  noise  of  the  simultaneous  withdrawal 
caused  by  her  words. 

"  And  if  you,  Joseph  Peyrat,  let  go  my  horse,  so  that 
I  take  cold  from  waiting  out  here  on  the  Gausses,  where 
I  am  on  the  Marechal's  own  business,  as  you  know  right 
well,  de  Montrevel  himself  will  hold  you  responsible. 
And  what  is  more,  if  I  know  him,  it  will  not  be  the  skin 
of  your  back  alone  that  will  pay  the  debt,  but  some  little 
stretching  of  your  neck  as  well, — which,  as  I  see  it,  is 
quite  long  enough  and  ugly  enough  already!  " 

The  two  women  were  left  alone. 

Madame  la  Marechale  quickly  threw  aside  the  great 
fur-lined  hood  which  had  hidden  her  face.  She  undid  a 
cloak  (of  which,  having  been  on  horseback,  she  appeared 
to  wear  an  infinite  number)  and  threw  it  about  Frances. 
Then  she  caught  her  impulsively  and  afifectionately  about 
the  neck  and  burst  into  tears. 

"  Oh,  what  must  you  think  of  me,"  she  cried,  "  you  who 
are  ever  distant  and  cold  do  not  know  what  poor  women 
have  to  bear  for  the  men  they  love — aye,  how  they  must 
even  for  policy  appear  to  be  kind  to  those  whom  they 
loathe  and  disesteem.  Forgive  me,  dearest  Frances. 
I  have  come  out  hither  to  save  you  from  these  bad 
men!" 

And  lo!  before  her,  mysteriously  clear  as  the  green 
aurora  could  make  her,  stood  Yvette  Foy! 

And    Flower-o'-the-Corn,   in   a   mist    of   amazement, 


MADAME  LA  MARECHALE     191 

pressed  both  her  hands  to  her  head,  saying,  "  Oh,  God, 
God!    I  am  going  out  of  my  mind.    Let  me  die  quickly!  " 

"Tut — nonsense!  Nothing  of  the  sort,"  said  Yvette, 
who  was  always  practical-minded  in  all  circumstances, 
"  you  will  live  to  be  a  grandmother  yet — aye,  and  be  glad 
of  the  little  experience  I  am  giving  you  wherewithal  to 
help  your  granddaughters  out  of  scrapes.  Now  listen  to 
me!  Forget  what  you  have  seen,  or  believe  that  I  did  it 
wholly  for  your  good!  " 

"  That  I  can  never  do!  "  said  Frances,  speaking  more 
frigidly  even  than  the  cold  that  was  stiffening  her  through 
her  wrappings  of  fur  and  horse-blankets. 

Yvette  kept  her  arms  tightly  about  the  girl,  in  spite  of 
the  fact  that  her  friend  remained  as  unresponsive  as  a  doll 
carved  out  of  wood. 

"  But  I  think  I  can  show  you  cause  why  you  should 
think  less  ill  of  me,"  she  said,  gently,  like  one  who  suffers 
wrongs  she  cannot  help. 

"  That  can  you  never,  if  you  were  to  talk  till  Dooms- 
day! I  have  found  you  out,  Yvette  Foy,"  responded 
Flower-o'-the-Corn,  with  accentuated  bitterness. 

"  No,  I  am  with  you,"  said  the  other,  clasping  her  yet 
tighter.  "  If  I  were  only  Yvette  Foy,  the  innkeeper's 
daughter,  you  would  be  right  not  to  forgive  me.  But — 
I  trust  you  with  the  secret — my  Hfe  is  in  it,  and  the  lives 
of  far  more  and  far  worthier  than  I.  Yet  I  trust  you — I, 
poor  Yvette,  have  a  right  to  be  called  Madame  la  Mare- 
chale  de  Montrevel,  even  as  you  heard  them  name  me 
just  now!  " 

''  It  is  only  one  more  of  your  deceits — there  is  no  end 
to  them.  I  have  good  reason  to  know  that!"  retorted 
Frances,  not  yielding  the  least  from  her  attitude  of 
stiffened  disdain. 

"  Nay,  but  not  this  time,"  pleaded  Yvette.  "  It  has 
been  necessary;  I  allow  you  have  good  reason  to  distrust 
me.  But  that  has  been  the  fault  of  circumstances,  rather 
than  any  lack  of  keeping  faith.  I  am — do  not  forget  it — 
the  wife  of  the  Marshal  commanding  the  French  troops 


1 92        FLOWER-O'-THE-CORN 

in  these  mountains.  You,  who  have  such  high  ideals 
of  duty  and  affection,  tell  me  what  is  better  than  that  a 
wife  should  strive  in  all  ways  to  serve  the  interests  of 
her  husband.  And  have  I  not  done  so?  Was  I  not  or- 
dered to  find  out  the  secrets  of  this  fooHsh  young  officer 
of  Marlborough's?  And  if  you  had  not  interrupted  us, 
would  I  not  have  turned  him  inside  out  like  an  empty 
sack — aye,  this  very  night,  and  the  despatch  would  have 
gone  to  my  husband  in  the  morning?  It  was  for  this  that 
these  '  Cadets  of  the  Cross  '  who  are  now  watching  us — 
for  they  guard  you  as  a  valuable  prisoner  of  war — are 
ovit  on  the  face  of  the  Causses  to  support  the  regular  sol- 
diers sent  by  my  husband  to  meet  me.  It  is  in  order  that 
I  might  carry  to  de  Montrevel  what  I  know,  that  I  am 
here.  Do  you  not  see?  Wherefore  else  should  a  woman 
like  me  remain  alone  in  a  petty  village,  listening  to  psalms 
chaunted  night  and  morn  like  the  howling  of  dogs  with 
their  noses  pointed  at  the  moon,  and  prophets  prophesy- 
ing like  old  spae-wives  afraid  of  the  Last  Judgment. 
What  but  my  wifely  duty  would  have  kept  me  there?  " 

Flower-o'-the-Corn  was  looking  at  her  with  great  wide- 
open  eyes.  Blue  eyes  open  wider  and  show  more  surprise 
than  any  others. 

"  But  he  was  kissing  you,"  she  objected,  "  and — and — 
you  were  letting  him!  " 

"  You  dear  little  simpleton,"  laughed  Yvette,  "  why, 
that  is  nothing!  I  will  tell  de  Montrevel  of  it  to-night, 
and  he  will  laugh  heartily  to  himself.  It  is  only  part  of  the 
rules  of  the  game " 

"  Then  I  do  not  think  it  at  all  a  nice  game,"  said 
Flower-o'-the-Corn.  "  If  you  did  really  love  him,  of 
course,  that  might  make  a  difiference." 

"  Of  course  you  think  so,  dear  innocent,"  said  Yvette, 
gayly,  "  but  women  of  the  world  have  other  standards. 
And  now — well,  we  have  wasted  time  enough  on  this  mat- 
ter. It  is  folly,  anyway.  All  kissing  is,  unless  you  gain 
something  by  it !  The  main  thing  is  that  you  are  a  pris- 
oner of  war,  and  that  your  father  will  have  to  pay  three 


MADAME  LA  MARECHALE     193 

or  four  thousand  pounds  for  his  daughter's  liberation, 
or " 

"Or  what?"  cried  Frances,  with  her  blue  eyes  yet 
wider  open.  "  My  poor  old  father  never  had  three  thou- 
sand pence  to  bless  himself  with — what  is  the  other  alter- 
native? " 

"  Well,"  said  Yvette,  slowly,  "  you  are  a  young  girl 
and  I  am  a  married  woman,  but  to  be  honest  with  you  I 
cannot  put  the  alternative  into  words.  Unless  you  have 
heard  in  the  village  of  La  Cavalerie  what  these  Cadets  of 
the  Cross  are  in  the  habit  of  doing  to  Protestant  maidens 
who  fall  in  their  way,  I  cannot  bring  myself  to  tell  you!  " 

"I — have — heard!"  said  Frances,  slowly,  the  blood 
rushing  to  her  cheeks  and  then  slowly  fading  away. 

"  Well,"  said  Yvette,  taking  her  advantage,  "  these  men 
will  do  you  all  you  have  heard  and  worse — things  incon- 
ceivable— not  to  be  spoken  of.  For  these  are  no  regular 
soldiers,  but  Cadets  of  the  Cross — to-night  on  a  foray, 
and  to-morrow  in  the  slums  of  a  town  or  in  some  beggar's 
den.  Otherwise,  they  would  not  have  dared  to  speak  to 
me  as  they  did — otherwise  they  would  not  now  be  wait- 
ing about  us  like  greedy  wolves  around  the  innocent 
lamb!  " 

"And  what  shall  I  do?  Tell  me  what  I  must  do!" 
moaned  Frances,  her  head  still  on  her  hands.  "  I  have 
pistols.  Shall  I  kill  myself?  Or — or — if  we  wait  long 
enough " 

She  did  not  finish  her  sentence. 

"  If  we  wait  long  enough,  what  then?  "  said  Yvette, 
suddenly  grown  icy  in  her  turn. 

"  Well,  he — he  might  come  to  seek  me!  " 

Yvette  Foy  moved  a  little  further  from  her  victim. 

"I  thought  better  of  you  than  that!"  she  said,  se- 
verely; "my  excuse  that  I  did  that  which  I  did  at  the 
bidding  of  my  husband,  does  not  apply  to  him.  That 
which  he  did,  he  did  to  deceive  you — behind  your  back 
— out  of  the  prompting  of  his  own  evil  heart.  That  is, 
if  he  ever  had  any  love  for  you,  which  he  denied  to  me. 


1 94        FLOWER-O'-THE-CORN 

Besides,  it  does  not  matter.  It  will  not  do  for  us  to  be 
found  here  together.  If  your  friend  were  to  arrive  now 
there  would  be  a  fight.  Do  you  think  that  those  wolves 
out  yonder  would  give  up  their  prey  without  a  try  for  it  ? 
No,  surely!  Well,  they  might  win,  or' — he  might  win. 
But  neither  alternative  would  serve  my  purpose.  I  mean 
when  my  work  is  done  down  below,  to  go  back  to  La 
Cavalerie.  I  mean  to  be  nothing  more  than  Yvette  Foy, 
the  innkeeper's  daughter,  till  this  nest  of  rebels  against 
the  King's  authority  is  rooted  out.  Why  need  I  conceal 
it?  I  wish  to  be  back  again,  because  Jean  Cavalier  is 
there.  And  what  is  more,  I  want  the  ground  clear.  You 
have  been  in  my  way.  Yes,  in  my  way.  And  yet  I  love 
you,  as  I  shall  presently  prove.  I  might  have  gotten  all 
the  information  that  I  wish  from — from  this  young  aide 
of  my  Lord  Marlborough's  long  ago — had  it  not  been 
for  you." 

She  paused  to  let  her  words  sink  in. 

"  Well,  here  is  a  way  to  be  rid  of  me — once  and  for  all," 
cried  Flower-o'-the-Corn,  fiercely  and  suddenly.  She 
pulled  a  pistol  from  her  pocket  and  cocked  it.  Yvette 
snatched  it  away. 

"  It  would  serve  me  but  little  to  have  the  guilt  of  in- 
nocent blood  on  my  conscience,"  she  said.  "  You  forget 
— I  am  a  Catholic,  and  must  go  to  confession.  No,  no — I 
have  thought  of  a  way.    We  will  cheat  them  all  yet!  " 


XXII 

THE    CRADLE    OF   SAINT    VERAN 

MADAME  LA  MARECHALE!  Madame  la 
Marechale !  "  cried  a  voice  from  over  the 
desolate  fangs  of  the  Gausses,  crumbling 
with  frost,  and  weirdly  blanched  in  the  starlight. 

"  Aye,  Joseph,  what  is  it?  "  she  replied,  in  quite  another 
voice  than  she  had  been  using  to  Frances. 

"  We  must  be  going  to  our  homes  before  daybreak.  It 
comes  in  an  hour  or  so,  and  we  want  our  prisoner.  Our 
night  will  be  wholly  blank  without.  We  know  her  for  a 
Protestant  and  the  daughter  of  a  preacher.  We  will  have 
her  served  as  such!  " 

"  Besides  which,"  chimed  in  another  voice,  "  Cornely 
here  wants  his  horse-blanket." 

There  was  the  noise  of  a  scuffle  at  that,  under  cover  of 
which  Yvette  stood  up  on  the  ridge,  so  near  that  she 
could  talk  freely  to  the  men. 

"  If  it  is  a  matter  of  ransom,"  she  said,  kindly,  "  I  take 
it  on  myself  that  the  Marechal  de  Montrevel  will  pay  any 
reasonable  sum!    I  myself " 

"  It  is  not  a  matter  of  ransom,  Madame,"  answered  the 
man  who  had  been  called  Joseph,  fiercely:  "we  have 
taken  it  on  us  to  humble  these  dogs  and  sons  of  dogs, 
these  Huguenot  Barbcts!  Have  we  not  permission  to  use 
the  Torture — aye,  authority  from  the  King  himself,  pass- 
ing over  him  whom  you  are  pleased  to  call  your  husband." 

"  Cadets  of  the  Cross,"  cried  Yvette,  in  a  loud  voice, 
"  once  and  for  all  I  warn  you !  You  may  call  yourselves 
soldiers,  an  it  please  you.  But  by  the  faith  of  a  woman, 
if  my  husband " 

"  Her    husband,''    laughed    Joseph,    contemptuously; 

195 


196 


FLOWER-O'-THE-CORN 


"  she,  a  Protestant,  can  be  no  man's  honest  wife,  least  of 
all  that  of  a  Marshal  of  the  good  Catholic  King  of 
France,  from  whom  we  hold  our  orders.  Praise  be  to  the 
holy  pyx,  we  are  not  dependent  on  Monsieur  the  Marshal 
de  Montrevel — rno,  nor  on  any  of  his " 

"Hush  there!"  interrupted  another  voice — Cornely's 
probably. 

"  Well,  at  any  rate,"  continued  Joseph,  "  his  ladies  of 
the  Protestant  connection — be  done  with  your  talks  and 
plottings!  Madame  la  Marechale  we  will  not  touch.  She 
has  been  made  sacred  by  the  baton  of  a  Marshal.  But 
mark  me  well,  as  sure  as  my  name  is  Joseph  Peyrat,  we 
will  come  for  our  prisoner  in  five  minutes.  And  then 
willy-nilly,  Madame  la  Batonniere,  we  Cadets  of  the  Cross 
will  put  your  friend  to  the  high,  the  low,  and  the  middle 
question.  And  so  it  may  fall  out  to  all  pretty  wenches  of 
the  Barbet  persuasion!  " 

"Yes,  yes,"  chimed  in  some  of  the  others;  "do  we 
not  wear  the  white  band  in  double  across  our  breasts  in 
token  that  we  are  of  the  King's  party — the  alliance  of 
true  believers?  We  Cadets  of  the  Cross  will  make  an- 
other day  of  Holy  Saint  Bartholomew,  eh,  lads?  And  as 
for  the  Marechal  de  Montrevel,  he  who  wears  no  scarf 
and  makes  war  with  gloves  of  kid,  who  knows  on  which 
side  he  is?  " 

Already  there  was  a  glimmer  of  red  in  the  east  away 
over  the  dark  mural  escarpment  of  the  Causse  Noir.  It 
might  have  been  only  the  complement  of  the  flaming 
green  sword  of  the  aurora  that  smote  and  wavered  in- 
cessantly overhead.  But  the  waning  of  the  night  warned 
the  two  women  that  the  time  was  short,  even  though  they 
could  not  yet  see  each  other's  features. 

"  I  have  it,"  said  Yvette;  "  wait,  I  will  balk  them  yet. 
Cadets  of  the  Cross,  are  they?  They  will  make  a  new 
Saint  Bartholomew's  Day,  will  they?  Well,  well,  an  it 
please  them,  they  will  have  a  well-known  victim  to  try 
their  blades  upon.  Let  us  see  if  they  will  dare  to  kill 
ME!" 


CRADLE  OF  SAINT  VERAN      197 

The  two  girls  had  been  standing  all  the  while  almost 
under  the  shadow  of  the  huge  mast  which  had  been 
erected  as  a  support  for  the  carrier-cradle  to  convey  mes- 
sages and  packages  to  Saint  Veran  on  the  opposite  verge 
of  the  valley  of  the  Dourbie.  Thick  cables  stretched 
away  downward  in  the  darkness  in  a  grand  curve.  There 
was  a  little  drag  rope  underneath,  which  served  the  two- 
fold office  of  summoning  the  watcher  opposite  and  of 
fastening  the  parcel  in  the  travelling-cradle. 

"  Here  we  have  it,"  said  Yvette,  "  this  will  suit  all  pur- 
poses. You  can  await  your  father's  return  just  as  well 
at  Saint  Veran,  which  is  a  Camisard  town,  and  would 
give  its  last  Genevan  psalter  for  a  real  pastor's  daughter. 
You  will  be  out  of  my  way  there.  There  is  some  risk, 
of  course.  But  you  have  heard  very  plainly  that  I  shall 
not  be  able  to  save  you  here.  I  pray  you  get  into  the 
cradle.  By  the  Lord — I  mean  by  the  Holy  Virgin  of  St. 
Enemie,  I  would  that  I  had  your  chances.  If  I  could 
save  you  otherways,  I  declare  I  would  try  this  road  to 
heaven  myself.  It  is  as  near  as  Yvette  Foy  is  ever  likely 
to  find  herself!    Get  in,  Frances." 

The  girl,  now  thoroughly  frightened,  clung  about 
Yvette  Foy's  neck. 

"  No,  no,"  she  said,  "  I  do  not  deserve  your  love.  Get 
into  the  cradle  and  let  me  swing  you  ofif." 

"  Oh,  I  love  you,"  cried  Flower-o'-the-Corn ;  "  at  least, 
I  am  sorry  I  ever  hated  you.  You  are  giving  your  life 
for  mine — or  the  same  thing." 

"  Nonsense,  nonsense,  child,"  said  Yvette,  in  a  loud 
harsh  voice,  "  do  as  I  bid  you.    Are  you  ready?  There!  " 

She  gave  a  couple  of  sharp  tugs  to  the  rope,  which 
were  immediately  answered  from  the  other  side  of  the 
ravine,  and  then  rapidly  looped  the  cord  about  Flower- 
o'-the-Corn's  body. 

"Now  it  will  not  trail.  Kiss  me!"  she  said,  as  the 
wicker-basket  began  to  move,  cumbrously  at  first,  and 
then  slid  with  increasing  smoothness  down  the  great 
slope. 


198        FLOWER-O'-THE-CORN 

The  morning  was  fairly  dawning  now,  but  slowly.  The 
green  of  the  aurora  had,  as  usual,  blown  up  into  a  wind 
laden  with  heavy  purplish  clouds,  so  that  as  Yvette 
kissed  Flower-o'-the-Corn  she  felt,  though  she  could  not 
see,  the  tears  upon  the  grateful  girl's  face. 

Yvette  stood  a  moment  watching  the  long  sway  and 
sag  of  the  cradle  till  she  lost  sight  of  it  against  the  great 
marled  escarpment  of  the  Causse  Noir  on  which  stands 
the  little  town  of  Saint  Veran,  to  which,  by  the  most 
wondrous  carriage  then  extant  in  the  world,  Flower-o'- 
the-Corn  was  being  swiftly  borne. 

The  Cadets  of  the  Cross  were  all  gazing  with  such  in- 
tentness  at  the  place  where  their  prisoner  was  talking  to 
Madame  la  Marechale,  that  the  swaying  basket  of  wicker- 
work,  with  its  trail  rope  looped  two  or  three  times  about 
it,  passed  completely  over  their  heads  before  it  was  no- 
ticed. 

It  was  Joseph  Peyrat  who  first  caught  sight  of  it. 

"  Fire,  there — fire!  Throw  a  hand-grenade!  Run 
back  and  cut  the  ropes!  "  he  shouted.  "  Do  you  not  see 
they  are  sending  away  some  valuable  plunder?  Did  I 
not  tell  you  both  of  them  were  Barhcts — Protestants — no 
true  Christians?  That  Marechale  woman  is  trying  to  jew 
us  out  of  our  honest  dues.  All  the  best  of  the  plunder 
will,  in  a  hen-setting  of  moments,  be  safe  in  their  accursed 
Saint  Veran!  But  you — you  would  not  take  my  advice, 
and  you  see  where  you  have  landed  yourselves!  " 

The  Cadets  of  the  Cross  (as  the  irregular  infantry  on 
the  Catholic  side  was  called)  wore  as  their  badge  a  crossed 
band  of  white  linen  upon  their  breasts,  and  their  deeds 
were  those  of  savages.  Rather,  as  even  their  own  chron- 
iclers report,  it  would  seem  as  if  no  savages  with  toma- 
hawk and  scalping  knife  ever  equalled  the  atrocities 
which  these  fiends  rejoiced  to  commit  in  the  name  of  re- 
ligion and  under  the  sanction  of  the  highest  powers  of 
Church  and  State. 

But  there  was  by  the  nature  of  the  bond — which  was 
solely  one  of  plunder  and  revenge — little  discipline  among 


CRADLE  OF  SAINT  VERAN     199 

them.  So  that,  though  Joseph  by  dint  of  a  superiority  in 
cruelty,  had  assumed  a  certain  command  among  them. 
there  were  others,  as  Comely,  who  were  of  almost  equal 
standing.  At  all  events  no  volley  was  fired  at  Flower-o'- 
the-Corn's  cradle  as  she  swung  out  across  the  deep  gulf 
toward  the  town  of  Saint  Veran,  a  mere  purple  blur  in  the 
distance  when  she  started,  now  growing  full  of  windows 
and  white  walls,  all  crowded  with  watching  people. 

Joseph  himself  fired,  indeed,  as  did  several  others.  A 
hand-grenade  was  thrown,  not  unskilfully,  for  it  struck 
the  moving  basket,  causing  it  to  sway  dangerously.  For 
at  that  date  aerial  conveyances  were  tricksy  things,  and 
indeed  it  is  not  recorded  that  they  have  gained  very 
greatly  in  certainty  since.  Then  it  fell  back  to  earth, 
with  a  cry  of  ''Ware,  heads!"  and  a  general  scattering 
this  way  and  that,  all  crouching  low,  as  hens  do  when  the 
hawk  hovers  in  the  zenith. 

The  grenade  took  the  ground  near  the  feet  of  Joseph 
Peyrat,  and  exploded  with  a  vast  upflinging  of  dust  and 
earth,  some  of  which  went  into  Joseph's  eyes  and  mouth, 
making  his  language  like  that  of  a  bull  of  excommunica- 
tion done  into  the  vernacular.  Thereafter  he  coughed, 
shouted,  and  cried  aloud  that  he  was  blinded. 

He  ordered  someone  to  lead  him  to  the  mast.  He  de- 
clared that  he  would  cut  the  ropes  with  his  own  hand. 
He  would  slay  the  girl.  No  two  accursed  Barbets  should 
chouse  him  of  his  proper  advantage!  And  as  for  the 
other  girl — he  cared  neither  for  Marshal's  wife  nor  Mar- 
shal's  

Whereat  someone  bade  him  abruptly  stow  the  slack  of 
his  jaw.  If  the  ropes  were  to  be  cut,  he  must  go  and  do 
it  by  himself. 

"  And  very  soon  will  I  finish  that!  "  he  cried,  striding 
toward  the  great  trebly-braced  mast  of  the  Saint  Veran 
cradle. 

Beneath  it  stood  a  woman — a  woman  whom  at  first 
sight  they  did  not  know.  She  had  a  pistol  in  either  hand 
— Flower-o'-the-Corn's  pistols.    She  stood  erect  beneath 


200        FLOWER-O'-THE-CORN 

the  dark  purple  little  dawn — a  brunette,  tall  and  deter- 
mined, her  eyes  deep  as  the  Dourbie  pools  at  eventide, 
yet  now  gleaming  bright  and  angry  as  when  the  sun 
shines  on  a  sea  fretted  with  the  north  wind. 

"  Approach  nearer  by  one  hairsbreadth,  any  one  of 
you,"  she  cried,  "  and  I  will  show  you  what  chance  a 
Cadet  of  the  Cross  has  of  heaven!  You  say  that  you 
do  not  fear  the  Marechal — that  you  are  not  under  his  or- 
ders. But,  thank  God,  there  is  one  argument  which  can 
still  avail  with  a  Cadet  of  the  Cross,  and  all  such  cattle — 
the  fear  of  a  hole  punctured  in  his  own  dirty  skin.  Sol- 
diers— no,  such  beasts  as  you  would  not  be  soldiers  more 
than  one  day!  At  daybreak  of  the  second  the  Provost 
Marshal  and  the  limb  of  the  nearest  convenient  beech 
would  finish  your  service.  But,  come  on — I  have  sent  my 
friend  where  you  will  not  be  able  to  touch  her.  She  is 
safe  in  Saint  Veran  by  this  time.  And  if  you  want  either 
her  person  or  her  ransom — why,  go  there  and  seek  it.  Or 
apply  at  the  camp  of  my  husband,  de  Montrevel — who,  in 
spite  of  all  letters  permissory,  knows  how  to  deal  with 
such  vile  beasts  of  the  field  as  you  are." 

After  that  there  was  a  rush,  Joseph  Peyrat  being  well 
to  the  front,  as  it  chanced  on  this  occasion  by  no  means 
to  his  gain. 

A  shot  rang  out.  Joseph  doubled  himself  up  suddenly 
as  if  he  had  fallen  over  upon  his  own  folded  arms.  Yvette 
stood  erect,  a  little  ring  of  smoke  disengaging  itself  from 
her  pistol. 

"Ah,  here  they  come — the  Maison  Rouge!  The  uni- 
form of  the  King's  guards!  Better  leave  the  wench 
alone ! " 

Other  guns  went  ofT  irregularly.  An  officer  ran  up  in 
the  fine  uniform  of  the  Maison  du  Roi,  the  Red  House  of 
the  King. 

"  A  moi — France !  France !  "  cried  Madame  la  Mare- 
chale,  at  the  pitch  of  her  voice. 

The  Cadets  of  the  Cross  took  to  their  heels  in  the 
brightening  dawn.  They  had  no  wish,  in  the  present 
mood  of  Madame  la  Marechale  de  Montrevel,  to  test 


CRADLE  OF  SAINT  VERAN     201 

the  carpenter  work  of  the  King's  gibbets,  or  even  of  the 
nearest  beech-trees.  So  they  made  speed,  and  were  out 
of  sight  in  a  few  minutes.  AH  save  Joseph,  that  is,  who 
would  never  return  an  insolent  answer  to  maid  or  matron 
again.  He  lay  on  his  face,  his  mouth  filled  with  the  hard 
earth  of  the  Causse,  his  white-banded  bonnet  fallen  off, 
and  the  bald  pate  of  him  lying  against  the  great  mast  of 
the  travelling  cradle  which  had  conveyed  Flower-o'-the- 
Corn  safely  across  to  Saint  Veran. 

"What  is  this?  What  is  this?  Speak — speak,  Mis- 
tress Foy?"  cried  Maurice  and  Catinat  together. 

The  cloak  of  fur  fell  to  the  girl's  feet.  It  lay  about  her 
unregarded  as  she  stood  a  moment  silent.  But  not  a 
quiver  of  the  countenance  discovered  to  the  men  that 
Yvette  had  expected  any  other  succors  across  the  waste 
than  those  which  had  arrived  so  opportunely. 

"  It  was  nothing,"  she  said,  and  her  voice  was  clear 
and  steady,  "  only  I  found  the  Cadets  of  the  Cross  threat- 
ening with  ill-usage  Mistress  Frances  Wellwood,  and  I 
have  sent  her  over  the  way  to  Saint  Veran!  It  was  noth- 
ing to  do! " 

"  It  is  the  act  of  a  heroine!  "  said  Maurice,  profoundly 
moved. 

"It  is  worthy  of  a  Jael!"  said  Catinat.  "Well  may 
we  sing  the  song  of  Deborah,  she  who  in  an  hour  became 
immortal  as  a  worthy  mother  in  Israel!  " 

Then  Catinat  took  both  hands  of  the  girl,  the  rich  man- 
tle lying  all  unheeded  at  her  feet. 

"  For  this  also  I  ask  your  pardon,"  he  said,  solemnly ; 
"  I  took  you  for  one  of  the  foolish  ones,  the  lookers-out 
of  windows  upon  passers-by,  devisers  of  cunning  needle- 
work of  various  colors — nay,  even  as  the  liers-in-wait  for 
the  unwary.  But  now  I  see  you  are  even  as  Jael — as  Abi- 
gail who  saved  her  lord — even  as  Anna  the  prophetess — 
as  the  great  women  of  the  earth.  I,  Catinat  the  prophet, 
crave  yovir  pardon !  " 

And  raising  her  hand  very  reverently  he  kissed  it. 

Then  Maurice  Raith,  stricken  to  the  heart  for  the  anger 
that  had  been  in  him,  and  the  injustice  of  his  thoughts. 


202        FLOWER-O'-THE-CORN 

did  likewise.  And  both  of  them  took  this  Yvette  Foy  for 
a  woman  most  wonderful. 

Yet  neither  of  them  knew  how  wonderful.  For  it  is 
not  given  to  many  to  call  upon  a  husband  and  find  a  dis- 
carded lover,  in  raiment  which  she  herself  had  provided. 
In  a  single  moment  Yvette  Foy  had  laid  aside  her  degree, 
had  changed  sides  for  the  second  time,  had  become  again 
the  simple  daughter  of  Martin  Foy,  of  the  Bon  Chretien. 
Yet  not  so  much  as  a  tinge  of  regret  crossed  her  counte- 
nance. She  stood  before  these  men  even  as  a  modest 
maiden  might  do,  confused  by  the  hearing  of  her  own 
praises.  She  did  not  blush.  That  she  could  not  compass, 
but  she  looked  from  side  to  side  as  if  they  did  her  too 
much  honor,  and,  as  if  to  change  the  subject,  she  touched 
the  red  uniform  of  Maurice  with  her  forefinger. 

"  Whence  came  this  pretty  thing?  "  she  cried,  archly, 
like  a  child  that  finds  a  toy.  "  Well,  I  suppose  it  does  not 
become  me  to  ask,  for  it  has  served  our  purpose  so  ex- 
cellently this  time!  " 

**  Indeed,"  said  Maurice,  looking  at  himself  in  astonish- 
ment in  the  morning  light  after  the  excitement  of  the 
stalk  and  chase  had  ended;  "indeed,  I  know  as  little  as 
yourself  whence  it  comes,  or  how  I  came  to  have  it  upon 
me!" 

Yvette  smiled  subtly. 

"  Or  less,"  she  murmured,  unheard  of  the  young  man. 
Then  she  added  in  a  louder  tone,  "  Methinks  the  place  is 
even  yet  unsafe;  let  us  go  home!  " 

And  they  walked  back  together,  but  La  Cavalerie  was 
not  the  home  in  which  Yvette  had  meant  to  take  her  rest 
that  night,  nor  they  the  courtiers  who  were  to  do  her 
homage.  Nevertheless,  like  a  child  that  will  sleep  any- 
where, she  accepted  Catinat  and  Maurice,  since  no  better 
might  be,  even  complimenting  the  latter  on  his  uniform 
and  how  well  he  looked  in  it. 

"  It  becomes  you  better  than  anything  I  ever  saw  you 
wear,"  she  said.  Then  the  moment  after  she  added,  "  And 
I  think  she  would  like  it,  too  !  " 


XXIII 

APPLES    OF   GOLD    IN    BASKETS    OF   SILVER 

LET  it  be  set  down  as  not  the  least  of  the  virtues 
of  this  remarkable  girl  that  she  recognized  in 
J  a  moment  when  her  immediate  plans  had  been 
defeated,  and  without  a  murmur  took  up  her  old  life 
again,  with  all  that  the  sacrifice  meant  to  her. 

Perhaps  she  was  somewhat  assisted  in  this  by  the 
thought  that  Flower-o'-the-Corn  was  safe  on  the  other 
side  of  the  great  gulf  of  air  which  men  call  the  Valley 
of  the  Dourbie.  All  the  same  it  was  no  mean  or  small 
thing  she  had  done,  when  she  had  stood  it  out  alone 
and  backed  down  all  opposition  till  her  dear  friend  (or 
dearer  enemy)  w'as  safely  taken  out  of  the  cradle  on  the 
other  side.  She  knew  when  that  happened  by  the 
twitching  of  the  ropes  above  her  head  and  the  quivering 
of  the  stays  which  extended  every  way  about  the  mast. 

On  the  way  home  she  warned  Maurice  and  Catinat 
that  the  Cadets  of  the  Cross  now  knew  of  the  Camisard 
means  of  communication  with  Saint  Veran,  and  that  if 
they  wished  to  keep  it  in  working  order  they  had  better 
put  a  sufficient  guard  over  it.  She  also  informed  them 
that  Flower-o'-the-Corn  seemed  glad  to  be  gone,  a  fact 
in  no  wise  surprising  considering  the  threats  of  the 
sieurs  Joseph  Peyrat  and  his  complices. 

"  Wait  till  I  lay  hands  on  any  of  them.  They  call 
themselves  Cadets  of  the  Cross,"  growled  Catinat, 
grimly,  "  I,  Abdias  Maurel,  will  for  the  first  time  reveal 
to  them  for  what  purpose  a  cross  is  constructed." 

As  Yvette  had  foretold,  the  townsfolk  of  Saint  Veran, 
Camisards  to  the  core,  and  hotly  in  earnest  about  the 
matter,  received  Flower-o'-the-Corn   with  open   arms. 

203 


204        FLOWER-O'-THE-CORN 

No  one  could  do  enough  for  her.  The  maidens  ran  for 
their  mothers — their  mothers  for  cordials  and  bade 
blankets  be  heated  before  the  fires.  There  were  feuds 
as  to  who  should  entertain  her,  only  decided  by  the  atti- 
tude of  the  entire  young  male  population  of  Saint  Veran, 
which  persisted  in  hanging  over  her  couch  like  devotees 
before  a  shrine,  and  vouching  unanimously  for  the  will- 
ingness of  their  parents  to  receive  her.  So  these  wise 
people  finally  decided  that  Flower-o'-the-Corn  should 
await  the  coming  of  her  father  (of  whose  sermons  they 
had  heard  the  fame)  in  the  house  of  a  certain  childless 
couple,  Saint  Ruth  by  name.  The  husband  had  been 
formerly  mayor  of  the  little  hill  town,  and  he  and  his 
wife  were  exceeding  willing  to  have  the  daughter  of 
the  famous  pastor  of  Geneva  as  their  guest. 

Here,  then,  we  may  leave  Frances  Wellwood  safely 
and  restfuUy  happed  in  the  kindliness  of  these  good 
people.  To  the  great  Causse  de  Larzac  we  return,  from 
whose  verge  Saint  Veran  is  only  a  picturesque  purple 
outline  and  a  wreath  of  blowing  wood  smoke. 

Yvette  was  once  more  within  the  auberge  of  the  Bon 
Chretien,  the  fur  robes  done  away  in  silver  paper,  while 
the  other  two  (being  men  and  having  other  matters  more 
important  to  think  about)  never  so  much  as  wondered 
where  they  came  from.  Such  is  the  man  Adam.  Even 
outside  Eden  it  is  questionable  if  he  would  have  ob- 
served Eve's  changes  of  costume,  even  though  (doubt  it 
not)  the  lady  had  a  fresh  one  every  day. 

At  La  Cavalerie  the  old  routine  recommenced.  The 
guards  were  shifted  duly.  The  trenches  were  dug 
farther  afield.  Sadly  Maurice  went  about  his  duty, 
casting  many  a  glance  across  the  deep  gorge  of  the 
Dourbie — now  all  blue  and  rose  with  the  exhalations  of 
the  evening,  again  like  a  floor  white  and  solid  as  though 
one  could  walk  across  it,  when  the  cumuli  piled  them- 
selves under  the  round  of  the  moon — at  all  times  a  great 
gulf  fixed  which  the  young  man  desired  to  pass  over 
and  was  not  able. 


APPLES    OF    GOLD  205 

Each  night  he  walked  to  the  great  post  from  which 
ran  the  ropes  of  the  cradle  of  Saint  Veran.  And  each 
time  he  had  a  new  proof  of  the  power  of  the  wife  of  a 
Marechal  of  France ;  that  is,  had  he  but  known  it.  For 
the  post  remained  unhewn,  the  ropes  uncut,  and  the 
cradle,  returned  by  unseen  hands  from  the  heights  of 
Saint  Veran,  swayed  emptily  in  the  breezes  of  the 
Gausses,  as  if  it  had  never  conveyed  across  the  trench 
of  the  Dourbie  so  fair  and  precious  a  burden  as  Mis- 
tress Frances,  called  Flower-o'-the-Corn. 

As  for  Yvette  Foy,  her  attitude  toward  Maurice  was 
quite  changed.  A  kind  of  tender  reproach,  as  if  deeds 
ought  to  speak  louder  for  her  than  any  words,  charac- 
terized her  bearing — no  more  small  sisterly  cares  or 
frequency  of  interviews,  but  rather  a  quiet  regretful  dis- 
tance, absolute  and  elaborate  as  the  gulf  of  Saint  Veran, 
guarded  her  about.  In  the  air,  as  it  were,  for  ever 
hovered  the  echoes  of  the  harsh  words  spoken  on  the 
eve  of  Flower-o'-the-Corn's  flight.  They  made  a  kind 
of  martyr  halo  about  her  head. 

Patient,  maidenly,  unrevengeful,  the  spirit  of  Yvette 
Foy  seemed  to  etherealize  her  lovely  body,  and  her  very 
silence  concerning  the  act  she  had  done  in  saving  Fran- 
ces Wellwood  and  facing  the  worst  that  the  cruel  Cadets 
of  the  Cross  could  do  to  her,  added  to  that  incomparable 
nobility  of  self-sacrifice  the  one  touch  of  the  unexpected 
which  it  lacked. 

Not  that  Yvette  Roy  made  any  claims !  She  only 
abased  her  great  eyes  and  besought  others  to  pass  from 
the  subject. 

And  then,  after  all,  in  its  essence  it  was  a  fine  thing 
she  had  done,  so  that  she  had  every  right  to  speak  or  to 
be  silent  as  it  pleased  her. 

But  as  to  the  reason  which  had  led  her  out  upon  the 
Gausses  that  night,  Yvette  Foy  was  silent  with  a  silence 
invincible  and  complete. 

To  be  quite  plain,  a  noble  combination  had  been  spoilt, 
and  the  Marechal  de  Montrevel  and  his  suite  had  roamed 


2o6        FLOWER^O'-THE-CORN 

as  much  of  the  Gausses  as  was  safe  for  three  or  four 
hours  in  vain,  seeking  a  certain  Madame  la  Marechale — 
who,  in  the  simple  guise  of  Yvette  Foy,  was  at  that  mo- 
ment gently  and  uncomplainingly  returning  toward  La 
Cavalerie  in  time  to  chaunt  the  morning  psalm  of  the 
Camisards. 

For  the  elements  of  greatness  in  Yvette  always  told 
her  to  make  the  best  of  the  things  which  were.  So  with 
Maurice  on  one  side  and  Catinat  on  the  other,  Billy 
Marshall  bringing  up  the  rear,  she  ofifered  a  striking 
picture  of  a  Puritan  maiden,  going  meekly  homeward 
after  some  deed  of  noble  self-immolation  which,  like  that 
of  Miriam,  the  sister  of  Moses,  would  render  her  name 
famous  for  ever  among  her  people. 

The  fur  cloak  over  her  arm  did  not  matter.  She  never 
so  much  as  referred  to  it  once.  A  sweet  and  singular 
modesty  pervaded  her  every  action.  Her  whole  de- 
portment told  of  patience  and  contentment  with  the 
station  in  which  Providence  had  placed  her.  Such  was 
the  attitude  of  Yvette  Foy  till  the  party  which  had  been 
sent  to  intercept  the  English  ships  came  home.  Yet  it 
is,  indeed,  more  than  likely  that  had  Yvette  succeeded 
in  her  first  mission,  the  embassy  might  never  have  re- 
turned at  all. 

But  at  all  events,  return  it  did,  though  not,  in  the 
opinion  of  those  who  took  part  in  it,  wholly  successful. 

The  Camisards  and  Cavalier  their  chief,  had  expected 
that  the  allies  would  send  something  more  than  arms 
and  munitions  of  war — though,  as  Maurice  pointed  out, 
not  altogether  with  reason.  They  had  expected  troops 
also. 

Now,  no  King  of  France  could  have  sustained  for  a 
moment  the  disgrace  of  a  body  of  foreign  troops  within 
his  dominions — nay,  in  the  very  heart  of  them,  assisting 
his  own  subjects  to  rebel.  He  must  have  given  up  his 
foreign  wars,  withdrawn  his  armies,  and  first  bound  the 
strong  man  who  had  found  entrance  into  his  house. 
This  was  always  Maurice's  view,  as  it  had  been  that  of 


I 


APPLES    OF    GOLD  207 

his  master  Marlborough.  But  it  was  not  that  of  the 
Camisards,  who  were  naturally  disappointed  that  the 
English  ships  would  land  no  troops,  nor  do  more  than 
aid  them  to  put  the  stores  and  warlike  material  into  a 
place  of  safety,  so  that  they  could  be  recovered  at  a  later 
period. 

When  Cavalier  returned  he  found  the  whole  town  and 
defences  of  La  Cavalerie  in  such  complete  and  admira- 
ble order  that  no  fault  was  to  be  found  anywhere.  Also 
many  things — such  as  the  fortifying  of  the  communi- 
cations toward  the  Dourbie — had  been  thought  on  and 
carried  out  for  the  first  time.  Nevertheless,  not  a  word 
of  praise  or  compliment  did  Cavalier  utter,  even  with- 
drawing the  guard  about  the  cradle-post,  the  cables  of 
which  connected  the  Larzac  with  Saint  Veran,  with  the 
result  that  it  was  found  a  morning  or  two  afterward 
wrecked  and  useless,  the  great  ever-booming  stays  cut 
and  the  whole  wonderful  erection  lying  over  on  its  side. 

Soon  afterward  Maurice  found  that  there  was  a 
changed  atmosphere  toward  him  and  his  countryman  in 
the  village  of  La  Cavalerie.  Part  of  this,  no  doubt, 
existed  solely  in  the  young  man's  own  mind.  His  soul 
was  on  the  purple  ridges  of  Saint  Veran,  his  body  on  the 
rough  fortifications  of  the  Larzac. 

The  expedition  had  achieved  all  that  he  had  expected 
of  it.  Everything  that  the  Camisards  had  not  been  able 
to  bring  with  them  had  been  safely  stowed  away.  But 
the  fact  (which  was  now  for  the  first  time  borne  in  upon 
them)  that,  so  far  as  fighting  went,  they  must  rely  en- 
tirely upon  themselves,  appeared  altogether  to  have 
changed  their  dispositions  to  strangers. 

Catinat  alone  continued  to  show  them  friendliness. 
From  the  rough  hard  man  of  whom  nothing  had  been 
expected,  most  was  now  forthcoming. 

It  was  soon  evident  that  Patrick  Wellwood  and  his 
young  countryman  Maurice  Raith  could  not  long  con- 
tinue to  reside  in  comfort  at  La  Cavalerie.  For  one 
thing  all  communication,  save  that  of  the  daily  display 


2o8        FLOWER-O'-THE-CORN 

of  "  All  Well  "  flags,  was  cut  ofif  with  Saint  Veran  by 
the  destruction  of  the  cradle  on  the  Dourbie  side. 

And  by  this  very  misfortune  the  heart  of  the  young 
man  and  the  heart  of  the  old  grew  closer  to  each  other. 

It  was  not  long  before  Maurice  declared  himself  fully 
to  the  late  chaplain  of  Ardmillan's  regiment.  Indeed, 
that  saintly  man,  though  less  observant  perhaps  than 
any  human  creature,  and  in  many  senses  "  of  a  wander- 
ing and  dilatory  eye,"  had  more  than  once  found  reason 
to  marvel  that  a  mere  Brabant  carrier  should  have  the 
air  and  carriage,  not  to  mention  the  information  and  in- 
terest in  serious  subjects,  which  Maurice  Raith  dis- 
played to  the  pastor. 

But  one  evening  the  confession  came  naturally. 

"  I  am  Raith,  of  the  Commander-in-Chief's  staff,  sir, 
here  upon  his  Grace's  own  business,"  said  the  younger. 

"  And  I,  by  the  act  of  an  overruling  Providence,  am 
Patrick  Wellwood,  sometime  chaplain  to  Ardmillan's 
regiment,"  responded  the  other. 

"  I  knew  you  from  the  moment  I  set  eyes  upon  you," 
said  Maurice,  with  a  glow  of  boyish  triumph.  "  You 
see,  you  never  attempted  any  disguise.  And  then — your 
daughter !  " 

"  What  of  my  daughter,  sir?  "  said  the  old  man,  with 
the  first  touch  of  chill  in  his  tone. 

"  Well,"  explained  Maurice,  boldly,  "  you  could  not 
expect  to  hide  her  light  under  a  bushel,  even  in  La  Cava- 
lerie.     There  is  no  one  so  beautiful  as  she  is !  " 

The  old  pastor  looked  straight  at  the  man  before  him. 
His  "  wandering  eye  "  was  steady  enough  now. 

"  May  I  inquire  of  you  if  you  have  conveyed  any  of 
these  fancies  to  my  daughter  herself?  "  he  said. 

Maurice  smiled,  the  clear-hearted  glad  smile  of  the 
man  ready  to  count  all  well  lost  for  love. 

"  Frankly,  she  would  not  let  me,"  he  said,  "  otherwise 
the  information  has  been  at  the  disposition  of  the  lady 
any  time  these  many  weeks." 

The  old  man  sighed  and  rested  his  hand  upon  his  brow. 


APPLES    OF    GOLD  209 

"  Frances  has  been  to  me  truly  as  an  apple  of  gold  in 
a  basket  of  silver,"  he  murmured.  "  True  is  it,  she  hath 
not  to  the  full  her  mother's  beauty." 

Maurice  gave  vent  to  a  sudden  involuntary  cry.  Pat- 
rick Wellwood  smiled  a  little  compassionately. 

"  No,"  he  said,  "  even  though,  save  one,  these  eyes 
of  mine  have  never  seen  aught  like  her.  Yet  her  mother 
was  a  fairer — yea,  fair  as  Eve,  the  wife  of  Adam  in  Para- 
dise, ere  the  coming  of  the  Evil  One." 

He  paused  an  instant,  as  if  contemplating  in  the  fire- 
light, sweet,  dim,  far-ofif  happinesses. 

"  Ah,"  he  said,  softly,  so  softly  as  almost  to  be  in- 
audible, "  there  was  no  one  like  her.  Yet  she  chose  me 
— me,  from  among  them  all !  " 

So  thus  naturally  things  cleared  themselves  between 
the  two  men,  and  after  this  both  were  gladder  for  the 
presence  of  the  other.  The  minister  himself  was  of  good 
family  in  his  own  land,  though  like  many  another,  sore 
reduced  with  the  troubles  of  Covenant  times. 

So  his  Frances,  his  "  apple  of  gold  in  the  basket  of 
silver,"  was,  in  his  opinion,  good  enough  for  any  Raith 
in  all  the  land,  and  his  ofifice  of  minister  of  the  Gospel 
of  equal  rank  with  that  of  a  Commander-in-Chief. 

So  it  is  small  wonder  that  the  two  men  stood  a  moment 
that  night  holding  each  other's  hand  ere  they  parted. 

"  Good-night  to  you,  sir,"  said  Maurice,  simply,  speak- 
ing through  the  grip  of  his  hand  more  than  through  his 
words. 

"  The  Lord  that  is  on  high  bless  you — both!"  replied 
the  minister,  adding  the  last  word  after  a  solemn  pause, 
and  with  the  jolt  which  a  wheel  makes  over  an  obstacle. 

So  far  good,  but  Maurice  Raith  had  yet  to  make  his 
peace  with  Flower-o'-the-Corn. 


XXIV 

THE   SWEETNESS    OF   STOLEN   WATERS 

THE  situation  in  the  High  Cevennes  could  not, 
however,  long  continue.  The  Marechal  de 
Montrevel  was  considered  by  the  Court  not  to 
have  made  the  best  of  his  opportunities,  nor  to  have 
pressed  upon  the  folk  of  the  Camisards  with  enough 
hardness  and  determination.  Some  of  his  enemies  were 
base  enough  to  suggest  a  private  and  domestic  cause  for 
this.  There  was  even  some  outcry  in  Court  circles  that 
he  should  be  replaced  by  Marshal  Villars  or  the  young 
Duke  of  Berwick. 

And,  meantime,  in  the  town  of  La  Cavalerie  the  posi- 
tion of  the  emissaries  of  the  allies  was  rendered  far  from 
comfortable.  It  was  evident  that  the  immediate  press- 
ure of  the  French  attack  would  come  upon  La  Cavalerie 
and  not  on  Saint  Veran  or  the  towns  and  villages  farther 
to  the  south,  because  La  Cavalerie  was  universally 
looked  upon  as  the  fortress  and  ultimate  shelter  of  the 
rebels. 

Therefore  as  soon  as  possible  Maurice  Raith  and  Pat- 
rick Wellwood  decided  to  pass  across  the  one  place  to 
the  other. 

It  did  not  appear  a  difficult  undertaking,  seeing  that 
Flower-o'-the-Corn  had  so  quickly  accomplished  the 
transit.  But,  really,  with  the  deep  defile  of  the  Dourbie 
to  transact,  and  the  constant  passage  of  the  military, 
one  way  and  the  other  along  it,  the  crossing  was  now 
noways  easy. 

It  seemed,  in  addition,  that  during  these  latter  days 
since  the  return  from  the  sea,  Jean  Cavalier  had  changed 


STOLEN    WATERS  211 

to  them.  His  once  frank  countenance  had  clouded  over, 
and  instead  of  dropping  in  every  evening  to  talk  over 
the  chances  of  the  defence  and  the  affairs  of  the  day 
vi'ith  Patrick  and  Maurice,  he  avoided  them  both,  as 
though  he  had  done  them  some  grievous  wrong, — or, 
more  exactly,  as  if  he  owed  them  money. 

But  really  there  was  a  very  plain  and  obvious  reason 
for  this  alteration  in  the  conduct  of  the  Camisard  leader 
— one,  too,  which  Maurice  at  least  ought  to  have  been 
able  thoroughly  to  understand  and  appreciate.  Jean 
Cavalier  was  daily  spending  more  and  more  time  in  the 
enthralling  company  of  Mistress  Yvette  Foy. 

And  if  so  it  should  prove  that  the  lady's  claims  to  the 
title  of  Madame  la  Marechale  de  Montrevel  were  good, 
the  fact  certainly  did  not  interfere  with  the  charm  which 
she  had  been  accustomed  to  exercise  as  the  unwedded 
and  unappropriated  Mademoiselle  Yvette,  the  daughter 
of  Martin  Foy. 

It  may  be  worth  while  being  present  at  one  of  these 
interviews,  when  it  will  at  once  be  obvious  that,  however 
lightly  the  lady's  marital  engagements  sat  upon  her,  she 
was  at  least  wholly  loyal  to  the  political  commission 
which  had  been  given  her  by  the  Marechal  de  Montrevel. 

For  an  hour  or  more  curtains  of  red  baize  had  been 
drawn  across  the  high  small-paned  windows  of  the  liv- 
ing-room and  parlor  of  the  Bon  Chretien.  The  wood 
fire  burnt  cheerfully,  even  gleefully — the  small  branches 
crackling  far  up  the  wide  chimney.  The  blocks  of  olive 
roots,  dense  and  compact  of  fibre,  caught  the  flame  more 
slowly.  Indeed,  just  as  they  had  grown  deep  in  the  soil 
and  (as  it  were)  imbibed  the  sand  because  there  was  no 
water  to  drink,  so  now  they  spat  out  sparks  with  a  cer- 
tain spitefulness  and  impish  ferocity  as  if  the  grains  were 
veritable  bullets.  ► 

At  times  it  amounted  almost  to  a  pyrotechnic  exhi- 
bition, so  that  Mistress  Foy's  black  cat  Mauricette  was 
driven  back  with  arched  back  and  volleys  of  angry 
counter-spitting. 


2 1 2        FLOWER-O'-THE-CORN 

There  was  a  lamp  upon  a  little  table  at  Yvette  Foy's 
right  hand,  so  disposed  that  it  threw  the  proper  amount 
of  illumination  upon  the  clear  curves  of  her  beautiful 
face,  upon  the  full  red  lips,  yet  left  in  a  becoming  shadow 
the  great  eyes  with  their  wealthy  plenitude  of  lashes. 

Her  father  read  steadily  through  a  volume  of  Calvin's 
Institutes  translated  into  French  out  of  the  Latin  and 
published  at  Geneva.  But,  since  the  lamp  was  not  at 
all  arranged  for  his  benefit,  he  had  to  be  dependent 
largely  upon  the  small  clear-burning  plane  branches  and 
the  pyrotechnic  olive-wood  upon  the  fire  for  light  where- 
with to  make  out  the  printed  pages. 

But  a  few  words  at  a  time  served  him.  John  Calvin 
is  not  at  any  time,  nor  by  any  cataloguer,  to  be  classed 
as  a  purveyor  of  light  literature.  And  so  Martin  Foy, 
reading  slowly  and  meditating  deeply  upon  his  author, 
remained  all  unconscious  of  the  occasional  penetrating 
gaze  of  his  daughter,  who  sat  at  her  needlework  with 
an  expression  of  sweet  and  resigned  placidity  upon  her 
face,  which  accorded  ill  with  the  occasional  flashing  of 
her  eyes  as  they  rested  not  a  little  scornfully  upon  her 
father,  turning  with  painful  conscience  page  after  page 
of  Calvin  upon  "  Salvation  by  Works." 

In  brief.  Mistress  Foy  wanted  her  father  to  go  out. 
It  was  within  a  few  minutes  of  the  time  at  which  the 
young  chief  of  the  Camisards  was  accustomed  to  achieve 
his  evening  visitation  of  the  Bon  Chretien,  and — the 
young  woman  wanted  the  room  to  herself. 

Which  is  the  same  thing  as  to  say  that  she  would  have 
it,  as  indeed  the  event  soon  proved. 

"  Father,"  she  said,  suddenly,  "  I  do  not  think  that  it 
is  good  for  you  to  read  by  this  imperfect  light.  It  would 
hurt  younger  eyes  than  yours.  And,  besides,  was  not 
this  the  night  that  the  Scottish  gypsy  proposed  to  re- 
move the  horses  of  his  master?  For  my  part  I  have  yet 
to  see  the  Egyptian  who  is  to  be  trusted  with  a  horse. 
As  well  turn  a  fox  loose  in  the  poultry-yard.  Would  it 
not  be  as  well  to  go  down  and  see  to  it  that  he  leaves 
all  right  in  the  stable  ?  " 


STOLEN    WATERS  213 

Martin  Foy  raised  himself  up  with  a  sigh.  He  had 
become  absorbed  in  a  remarkable  page  of  the  Insti- 
tutes, indurated  and  compacted  like  the  olive  roots  by 
whose  light  he  was  reading,  and  like  them,  too,  capable 
of  throwing  off  a  perfect  volcano  of  sparks  when  set 
aHght  in  any  theological  assembly  in  the  world. 

The  interaction  of  free  grace  and  human  endeavor 
needs  some  thought  even  when  expounded  in  half  a  page 
of  Jean  Cauvin,  and  Martin  Foy  and  his  daughter  (had 
they  but  known  it)  were  in  perfect  unanimity  as  to  the 
danger  and  folly  of  good  works  and  general  benevolence. 
Most  meekly,  therefore,  Martin  Foy  went  down  the 
stone  stairs  of  the  Bon  Chretien,  and  Yvette  was  left 
alone.  The  great  wide-stomached  clock,  with  its 
dragons,  its  gilt  dolls,  and  impossible  hunchbacked 
caravels,  all  sailing  comfortably  away  together  to  the 
shores  of  nothing,  went  on  ticking  no  faster  and  no 
slower.  Whether  the  heart  of  Yvette  Foy  did  the  same, 
who  shall  tell  ? 

Certain  it  is  that  she  continued  her  needlework  like 
any  douce  and  thrifty  housemaiden,  till  the  last  echoes 
of  her  father's  cough  and  the  final  clack  of  his  wooden 
shoon  had  died  down  the  stairs. 

Tlien  she  sprang  up  with  the  swift  noiselessness  of 
a  wild  animal — the  young  of  the  leopard,  say,  or  the 
domestic  cat — which,  being  "  shooed  "  to  the  door,  stops 
to  lick  herself  on  the  way,  with  an  action  that  touches 
at  once  the  heights  of  gracefulness  and  the  basement  of 
contempt. 

But  Yvette  was  not  by  any  means  on  her  way  to  the 
door.  Yet  it  was  with  an  altogether  feline  swiftness 
that  she  crossed  the  room,  carrying  the  lighted  lamp  in 
her  hand,  and  placing  it  upon  a  little  Venetian  mirror, 
which  was  closed  during  the  day  by  double  leaves  of 
light-toned  wood. 

Then  with  fingers  which  moved  so  rapidly  that  they 
could  scarcely  be  followed,  Yvette  Foy  began  to  arrange 
her  toilette.  '  The  great  black  coils  of  her  hair  became 


2 1 4        FLO  WER-O'-THE-CORN 

like  living  things,  winding  and  wimpling  about  her  hands 
and  arms  as  if  she  had  been  some  oriental  snake-charmer. 
They  fell  back  into  massive  waves.  They  writhed  in 
sweeping  undulations.  They  gathered  themselves  up 
into  crisp  and  tiny  ringlets  about  her  white  forehead. 

And  as  she  proceeded  a  faint  and  curious  smile  broke 
slowly  over  her  face,  that  sweet  wilful  willingness  which 
comes  to  some  women  only  when  they  know  that  they 
are  beautiful,  or  when,  like  Mistress  Foy's  Mauricette, 
they  move  under  the  caressing  hand.  Yvette  only 
smiled.  A  lover  of  animals  would  have  expected  her  to 
purr. 

Then  she  took  a  puff  and  a  powder-shell  out  of  a 
drawer  and  touched  her  cheeks,  carefully  avoiding  her 
lips,  which,  being  sufificiently  scarlet  of  themselves, 
needed  no  attention.  And  even  as  she  continued  to 
look  the  smile  became  more  than  a  comfortable  ac- 
quiescence in  the  scheme  of  things.  Something  of  con- 
scious power  leaped  into  it.  She  seemed  to  be  listening 
to  the  words  of  a  lover  and  finding  pleasure  in  them. 
Yet  it  was  only  that  she  loved  herself  above  any  living 
thing — yes,  and  thought  herself  more  beautiful. 

There  came  a  light  foot  on  the  stair,  the  quick  con- 
fident spring  of  youth,  which  can  take  three  steps  as 
quickly  as  one  and  one  as  lightly  as  three.  Yvette  Foy 
carried  the  lamp  swiftly  across  the  room  to  the  little 
table.  She  set  it  down  with  care  in  its  original  place, 
and  having  picked  up  her  embroidery,  she  arranged  her- 
self in  a  moment  so  that  the  light  fell  upon  her  just  as 
it  should — her  profile  clear  as  that  of  a  sculptured  god- 
dess upon  an  altar  fresco,  her  ivory  neck  merged  into 
a  breathing  bosom  and  a  gold-and-white  bodice  which 
moved  with  a  gracious  rhythm.  The  plainness  of  her 
home-dress  was  lost  in  the  deep  shadow.  It  might  have 
been  the  peignoir  of  a  princess  or  the  single  gown  of 
King  Cophetua's  beggar  maid  before  her  perilous  eleva- 
tion. It  signified  little  now  to  Jean  Cavalier  what  she 
wore.    It  was  not  a  gown  he  had  come  out  to  see,  but 


STOLEN    WATERS  215 

rather  that  beautiful  face,  those  splendid  eyes  with  the 
sweet  lingering  invitation  in  them,  the  droop  and  lift  of 
her  curled  lashes,  the  pout  of  the  proud  mouth  which  yet 
(he  knew)  by-and-by  would  not  be  proud  with  him — 
these  and  suchlike  she,  Yvette  Foy,  had  resolved  to 
make  dearer  to  this  young  man  than  his  cause,  his 
religion,  his  soldiership,  and  his  God. 

The  knuckles  of  a  hand — of  a  well-accustomed  hand — 
fell  upon  the  outer  oak  of  the  parlor  door.  The  knock 
was  at  once  light  and  confident,  its  new  levity  at  once 
engaging  and  also  significant  of  many  things. 

The  smile  on  Yvette  Foy's  lips  seemed  to  spread 
upward  to  the  dimples  on  her  cheeks.  Her  eyes  glowed. 
For,  indeed,  to  do  her  justice,  there  was  nothing  cold  or 
impersonal  about  the  lady's  conquestings.  Yvette  met 
each  one,  as  it  were  new  and  virginal.  All  was  as  if  for 
the  first  time,  her  own  feelings,  her  reluctance,  her  shy 
yieldings  or  her  prolonged  resistances  ;  in  fact,  the  whole 
plan  of  campaign. 

So  on  this  occasion,  "  Come  in !  "  she  said,  softly  and 
innocently. 

Jean  Cavalier  entered  quickly  and  closed  the  door 
behind  him,  as  it  seemed  with  one  sole  movement.  He 
had  learned  something  since  last  we  saw  him.  They 
were  usually  good  scholars,  those  whom  Mistress  Foy 
tutored,  and  learned  their  lesson  swiftly. 

"  Yvette,  dearest !  "  he  said,  eagerly,  and  stood  a  mo- 
ment in  the  doorway,  struck  still  and  motionless  by  the 
beauty  of  the  vision  which  met  his  eyes.  Then  he  ap- 
proached with  quick  steps  and  knelt  beside  her.  The 
girl  let  her  work  drop  into  her  lap  with  a  sigh  of  con- 
tentment. The  bliss  of  her  smile  seemed  to  breathe  out 
with  a  conscious  glow  from  all  her  body.  She  turned 
her  face  toward  the  young  man,  a  tender  light  upon  it. 

"  No,  do  not,"  she  said,  softly,  lifting  up  the  fingers 
of  one  hand  with  ever  so  slight  an  action  of  defence, 
"  do  not.  You  must  not !  You  know  you  should  not 
come  in  upon  me  suddenly  like  that — frighting  me." 


2 1 6        FLOWER-O'-THE-CORN 

"  I  know,  I  know/'  he  exclaimed,  penitently,  "  only, 
Yvette,  remember  that  I  love  you — you  are  all  I 
have." 

"  So  you  say,"  she  murmured,  reverting  to  her  seam 
with  the  most  maidenly  delicacy,  the  smile  no  more  than 
a  fluttering  graciousness  now,  "  but  you  should  remem- 
ber who  you  are — and — and — that  the  character  of  a 
poor  girl  like  Yvette  Foy  is  easily  compromised  when 
great  captains  come  too  often  to  visit  them !  " 

He  smiled  easily,  with  the  pleasure  of  a  man  who  is 
touched  on  the  spot  where  his  soul  lives. 

Vanity  was  the  frayed  cord,  the  joint  in  the  armor, 
the  loose  link  in  the  chain — anything  which  might  de- 
scribe the  danger  and  weakness  of  Jean  CavaUer's 
nature. 

In  excuse  be  it  said  that,  as  yet,  he  had  scarcely 
touched  the  age  of  twenty-one  years,  and  that  Yvette 
Foy  had  in  her  time  played  on  the  vanities  of  far  older 
and  wiser  men,  as  an  artist  upon  an  instrument  of  strings. 

At  all  events,  now  Jean  Cavalier  was  as  wax  in  her 
hands.  But  as  she  had  promised,  she  did  her  spiriting 
with  the  daintiest  hand — so  delicate,  indeed,  that  even 
the  young  man  did  not  know  it.  He  entered  the  room 
all  unconscious  that  the  final  attack  upon  his  loyalty 
to  his  co-religionists  was  to  be  made  that  night. 

He  came  in  flushed  with  the  triumph  of  good  news. 

"  At  last,"  he  said,  "  you  and  I  have  La  Cavalerie  to 
ourselves.  I  saw  them  off  safely  across  the  Dourbie 
an  hour  ago  !  " 

Yvette  put  out  her  hands  swiftly  till  they  touched  the 
young  man's  shoulders,  and  then  suddenly  dropped  them 
as  though  a  new  thought  had  struck  her. 

"  I  would  that  I  had  known !  "  she  said.  Though  why, 
did  not  quite  appear. 

"  Perchance  after  all  you  wished  to  say  good-by  to 
the  young  officer  of  my  Lord  Marlborough  ?  "  said  Cava- 
lier, jealously. 

"Jester!"  cried  Yvette,  as  if  astonished;  and  then, 


STOLEN    WATERS  217 

when  he  had  repeated  his  words,  she  patted  him  on  the 
cheek  and  called  him  a  sulky  boy. 

Then  she  rose  up  quickly,  with  the  same  action  as 
she  had  used  when  she  went  to  the  mirror,  letting  the 
embroidery  fall  neglected  on  the  floor  and  leaving  the 
young  man  kneeling  before  the  empty  chair.  Jean 
Cavalier,  taking  comfort  more  from  her  actions  than 
from  her  words,  gathered  up  the  white  fabric,  the  silken 
skeins,  the  braid  of  gold  and  colors,  and  laid  all  upon 
the  table,  as  if  that  had  been  the  purpose  for  which  he 
knelt  down. 

Then  he  rose  and  stood  with  his  elbow  on  the  mantel- 
piece intently  watching  her.  She  paced  restlessly  up 
and  down,  evidently  deep  in  thought. 

"  Yvette,"  he  said,  at  .last,  "  is  your  trouble  anything 
in  which  I  can  assist  you?  " 

She  stopped,  looked  at  him  with  her  great  dark  eyes 
for  a  long  moment  as  if  drinking  him  in.  Then  abruptly 
she  resumed  her  walk  to  and  fro  on  the  floor  of  the 
parlor. 

For  a  while  she  did  not  answer  him.  More  than  once 
she  seemed  about  to  speak,  but  instead  let  her  words 
die  unuttered  on  her  tongue,  and  dropped  her  eyes.  The 
youth  was  greatly  disappointed.  She  appeared  to  think 
him  too  young  to  be  of  any  assistance  in  her  trouble. 
At  least,  that  was  how  he  interpreted  her  actions. 

"  These  Camisard  folk  do  not  think  so,"  he  said,  with- 
out prelude,  "  fhcv  obey  me.  That  which  I  order  they 
will  do !  " 

"  That  which  your  familiar  Spirit  reveals  to  you,"  said 
Yvette,  with  a  mischievous  glance. 

Cavalier  blushed  deeply. 

"  Nevertheless,  the  thing  is  true,"  he  said,  quickly.  "  I 
did  feel  it  here — speaking  within  me,  both  at  Geneva 
and  afterward  here.  As  I  love  you,  it  is  true.  But  of 
late  the  Spirit  hath  departed  from  me.  It  speaks  no 
more  in  my  heart." 

"  Frighted,  I  suppose,  by  the  first  counsels  of  com- 


2 1 8         FLOWER-O'-THE-CORN 

mon-sense,"  said  Yvette,  smiling.  "  Ah,  Jean,  Jean,  if 
only  you  had  permitted  me  to  be  frank  with  you  earlier, 
we  should  have  been  spared  this  folly !  " 

The  young  man  stood  gazing  at  the  girl,  his  eyes  wide 
and  troubled,  his  nether  lip  quivering. 

"  Do  you  know,"  he  began  suddenly,  and  then  as 
quickly  stopped  as  if  her  radiant  beauty  had  begun  to 
afifect  him  personally,  as  heat  might  or  extreme  cold. 
So  the  regard  of  Yvette  Foy's  eyes,  hngering,  delicious, 
personal  to  himself  alone,  drew  the  soul  from  him  and 
left  him  speechless  and  estranged  from  his  own  past. 

"  Do  I  know  what  ?  "  said  the  girl,  seating  herself  and 
drawing  up  one  knee  between  her  joined  hands.  That 
also  she  had  practised  beneath  the  lamp — nevertheless 
it  looked  now  the  most  innocent  and  spontaneous  thing 
in  life — as  Yvette  did  it  and  as  Jean  Cavalier  saw  it.  Yet 
the  Camisard  leader  was  no  fool,  at  least  not  more  so 
than  the  rest  of  the  world  at  one-and-twenty — nay,  and 
even  a  few  years  older. 

"  That  you  have  never  kissed  me  to-night !  "  he  said, 
taking  his  fate  in  his  hands. 

The  girl  drew  in  her  breath  sharply.  Her  cheeks 
flushed  definitely  and  seriously  this  time,  not  with  shame, 
not  with  maiden  modesty,  but  with  triumph.  She  knew 
now  that  the  game  was  in  her  hands. 

"  This  Camisard  business,"  she  thought  to  herself, 
"  will  flutter  out  and  die  away  like  a  fire  lacking  fuel — 
without  him,  that  is.     And  he  is  mine!  " 

But  aloud  she  said,  "  General  Cavalier,  I  am  surprised. 
Either  you  are  of  opinion  that  you  can  safely  insult  a 
poor  girl,  or  you  do  not  know  what  you  say !  " 

"  Neither,"  he  said,  brusquely,  "  neither,  as  God  sees 
me!  Yvette,  Yvette,  you  know  that  I  love  you.  You 
know  it.  I  have  told  you  so  a  thousand  times.  I  have 
given  you  a  hundred  proofs  of  it !  " 

She  laughed  scornfully. 

"  Ah,"  she  said,  "  but  not  the  one  proof  which  alone  I 
ask  for.    The  proof  that  would  in  a  week  undo  all  this 


STOLEN    WATERS  219 

mischief,  and  bring  back  peace  and  quiet  to  these  dis- 
tracted provinces !  " 

"  The  faith — the  faith !  "  said  Cavalier,  as  if  desper- 
ately reminding  himself  of  something  he  could  not  for- 
get.    "  I  could  not  break  my  word !  " 

"  Very  well,  then,"  said  Yvette  Foy,  "  you  have  re- 
fused the  only  thing  I  have  ever  asked  of  you.  What 
need  to  tell  me  of  a  thousand  proofs  of  love  when  you 
refuse  even  one  !     I  bid  you  good-night !  " 

"  Ah,"  said  Jean  CavaHer,  turning  distractedly  away, 
and  gripping  at  the  table,  "  you  know  not  what  you 
ask ! " 

But  there  he  was  wrong,  for  Yvette  Foy  knew  very 
well,  and  what  is  more — she  meant  to  have  it. 

To  let  him  think  out  his  thought  and  feel  the  pain  bite 
in,  she  turned  and  played  with  the  lamp.  She  made 
some  pretence  as  that  a  tortoise-shell  pin  had  dropped 
from  her  hair,  and  bent  to  look  for  it  upon  the  ground. 

In  an  instant  Jean  CavaHer  was  once  more  on  his  knees 
again  in  front  of  her. 

Smilingly  she  laid  her  hand  upon  the  young  man's  chin 
as  he  had  been  a  child.  It  was,  almost  superfluously, 
clean-shaven.     She  turned  his  face  up  to  hers. 

"  Jean,"  she  said,  "  Jean  Cavalier,"  and  her  voice  took 
on  the  soft  throaty  contralto  cooing  of  a  dove  to  its 
mate,  "  well  do  you  know  that  even  if  I  love  you  I  may 
not  say  so.  But  do  this  for  me — meet  the  Marechal 
at  Nismes,  or  where  you  will.  You  will  receive  a  com- 
mission in  the  King's  army,  I  promise  you  that — or,  if 
you  will,  you  may  return.  These  men  will  follow  you 
anywhere.  The  King  will  grant  them  his  pardon,  and 
guarantee  the  free  exercise  of  their  religion.  Do  this 
and — I  will  do  for  you  the  thing  you  ask  of  me." 

"  Do  it  now,"  he  pleaded,  his  face  eager  as  a  boy's  in 
the  grip  of  his  first  love.  (Ah,  if  the  woman  had  been 
but  worthy !) 

At  this  Yvette  smiled  her  witching  smile,  and  broke 
into  a  trill  of  merriest  laughter. 


220        FLOWER-O'-THE-CORN 

"  Ah,"  she  said,  "  you  are  young  indeed  !  Do  you  not 
know  that  a  favor  is  only  worth  asking  till  it  is  granted  ? 
At  least,  men  think  so — even  the  best  of  them,  even  the 
wisest  of  them.  That  is  why  one  who  loves,  one  who 
loves  to  be  loved,  has  sometimes  to  deny  what  she  would 
give — to  set  herself  about  with  thorns  when  her  heart  is 
full  of  flowers  !  " 

"  But  so  it  is  not  with  Jean  Cavalier !  "  he  cried,  his 
hands  clasped  before  him  as  when  he  was  used  to  invoke 
the  Spirit — that  is  before  grace  had  wholly  departed 
from  him. 

And  he  spoke  truth,  though  it  did  not  suit  Yvette 
Foy's  present  purpose  to  believe  it. 

"  Come — tell  me  that  you  will,"  she  said,  swaying  him 
with  her  eyes,  which  never  left  his  face ;  ''  to-night  you 
must  answer  me.  Not  for  long  can  I  avert  the  storm 
that  is  about  to  break — the  anger  of  the  King.  Were 
it  not  for  my  friend  Eugenie  la  Gracieuse,  I  could  not 
have  done  it  so  long.  But  now  the  horsemen  have  set 
themselves  in  array  at  the  gate,  while  we  on  the  moun- 
tains (as  well  you  know)  are  but  as  men  that  walk  naked 
and  barefoot  among  the  thorns." 

"  The  Lord  is  with  us !  "  answered  Jean  Cavalier,  but 
not  confidently. 

"  Are  you  sure — are  you  sure?  "  said  Yvette,  in  a  low 
thrilling  whisper.     "Is  He  still  with  you?" 

The  face  of  the  young  man  was  suddenly  contorted  as 
with  the  spasm  of  a  great  agony.  Sobs  mightier  than 
the  weeping  of  women  over  the  slain  shook  him  from 
head  to  foot.  Yvette  approached  her  lamplit  face  closer 
to  his,  all  flashing  with  ravishment  and  witchery  and  the 
joy  of  life.  She  took  him  with  the  attraction  of  a  doubt- 
ful denial,  the  strongest  weapon  of  such  a  woman.  The 
perfumed  braids  of  her  hair  breaking  loose,  crisped  in 
rings  and  tendrils  about  her  neck. 

The  young  man's  head  fell  forward. 

"  Ah ! "  he  cried,  with  a  sudden  fierceness,  "  you  are 
to  me  as  the  fair  women  of  Moab — even  as  she  who  was 


STOLEN    WATERS  221 

slain  in  Baal-peor  by  the  javelin  of  Phineas,  the  son  of 
Eleazar,  the  son  of  Aaron,  the  high  priest !  Yet  I  love 
thee,  Yvette !  Heaven  be  my  help,  I  cannot  choose  but 
love  thee !  And  my  punishment  is  that  the  Lord  hath  de- 
parted from  me!  " 

Then  Yvette  Foy  bent  and  resigned  her  lips,  which 
were  scarlet  as  the  flowers  of  sin,  crimson  as  sunset  red, 
sweet  as  stolen  waters,  upon  the  lips  of  the  young 
prophet  of  the  Cevennes. 

"  You  have  promised,"  she  said ;  "  you  will  come  with 
me  to  the  Marshal  and  make  the  peace  of  this  poor  folk 
with  the  King !  " 

"  Kiss  me  once  again  like  that  and  I  will  come — yea, 
though  hell  open  for  me  her  gates !  "  cried  Jean  Cavalier. 

And  for  the  second  time  Yvette  Foy  kissed  him.  For 
the  woman  was  fair  under  the  lamplight  and  pleasant  to 
the  eyes,  even  as  Eve  in  the  garden  when  Adam  first 
looked  upon  her  and  said,  "  This  is  bone  of  my  bone 
and  flesh  of  my  flesh !  " 

Yet  within  Jean  Cavalier  the  heart  was  heavy  as  the 
burden  of  the  desert  of  the  sea,  when  the  whirlwinds 
from  the  south  pass  through  from  the  desert,  from  a 
land  great  and  terrible,  where  no  God  is  nor  any  man 
had  come. 


XXV 

A    SPRINGE   TO    CATCH    WOODCOCKS 

IT  was  a  true  word  Yvette  Foy  had  spoken  when  she 
said  that  she  had  a  definite  offer  to  make  to  Jean 
CavaHer.  She,  and  she  alone,  had  discerned  that 
this  youth  was  the  crux  of  the  revolt.  She  had  per- 
suaded the  great  general,  the  Marquis  de  Montrevel, 
Marshal  of  France,  that  if  the  young  Camisard  could  but 
be  brought  over  to  the  side  of  the  King,  the  revolt  in  the 
Cevennes,  which  had  flamed  and  flickered  on  for  so 
many  years,  would  be  finished  once  and  for  all. 

And  since  Yvette  never  did  anything  for  nothing,  as 
a  price  for  carrying  out  this  successfully,  the  Marquis 
had  promised  that  she  should  be  publicly  acknowledged 
as  his  wife. 

This  was  a  matter  of  great  moment  to  Yvette  Foy. 
who,  more  than  godliness  and  an  entrance  to  heaven, 
desired  to  be  recognized  as  the  wife  of  a  Marshal  of  the 
realm.  She  was  beyond  doubt  a  woman  excellently 
fair,  and  in  all  that  concerned  her  own  future  of  an  extra- 
ordinary discretion. 

"  I  will  bring  Cavalier  to  your  feet,"  she  had  affirmed 
more  than  once ;  "  he  will  accept  a  commission  under 
the  King  and  raise  a  regiment — aye,  two  or  three  if 
necessary — only  in  that  case  his  rank  will  need  to  be  the 
higher.  The  Camisards  follow  him  like  sheep.  But  for 
this  you  on  your  part  will  acknowledge  our  marriage 
and  present  me  at  the  Court  of  Versailles !  " 

The  Marechal  had  laughed  at  this,  but  with  Yvette's 
arms  about  his  neck  he  could  do  little  else  but  promise. 

222 


TO    CATCH    WOODCOCKS     223 

"  That  you  may  have  others  of  higher  estate  upon 
whom  to  try  your  charms  than  a  mere  leader  of  Cami- 
sard  rebels,  my  pretty  Yvette,"  he  said,  tolerantly  touch- 
ing her  cheek  with  his  lips. 

The  Marechal  de  Montrevel,  to  whom  Yvette  Foy  had 
for  some  time  been  privately  married,  was  a  gentleman 
of  an  ancient  family  of  the  country  of  Bresse.  He  had 
survived  a  long  career  of  gallantry,  both  in  the  wars 
and  also  in  those  other  fields  with  which  the  word  is 
more  usually  connected.  He  had  early  attained  high 
honors  in  the  campaigns  of  the  King.  He  was  a  famous 
and  successful  duellist.  If  there  was  anywhere  a  forlorn 
hope  to  be  led,  Nicholas  de  la  Baume  was  the  man  to 
lead  it. 

He  was  now  in  his  six-and-fiftieth  year,  but  not  a 
single  gray  thread  crossed  the  rippled  flax  of  his  hair, 
which  he  wore  long  and  tied  in  a  queue.  He  adhered 
to  military  mustachios  in  an  age  of  clean-shaven  men, 
and  had  conserved  his  powers  by  judicious  exercises, 
military  and  other. 

A  certain  suave  and  kindly  humor,  mellow  as  his  laugh, 
and  more  than  occasionally  quickened  with  his  native 
Burgundy,  kept  the  man's  spirit  heartsome  and  sound 
as  a  nut.  He  had  frankly  fallen  in  love  with  Yvette 
Foy,  when  the  army  was  settled  at  Millau,  before  her 
father's  removal  to  La  Cavalerie,  and  it  was  by  his  advice 
that  the  greater  part  of  Martin  Foy's  forfeited  property 
had  been  settled  upon  his  daughter.  Not  that  this  had 
any  considerable  weight  with  de  Montrevel.  At  home 
he  passed  for  a  poor  man.  He  had  been  a  poor  soldier 
all  his  life,  and  he  expected  to  die  with  the  sharp  chill 
of  a  bayonet  through  his  breast. 

Still  this  girl  had  taken  him,  as  he  had  never  in  his 
life  been  made  captive  of  women.  First,  he  had  begun 
by  making  love  in  dilettante  fashion  to  Yvette  Foy.  He 
ended  (like  many  another)  in  finding  himself  in  love 
with  her.  With  the  inevitableness  of  a  woman's  instinct 
she  knew  the  feeling  that  was  in  him,  and,  as  her  manner 


224        FLOWER-O'-THE-CORN 

was,  received  his  advances  coldly,  while  all  the  time  her 
great  black  eyes  burned  with  an  inner  light,  and  the 
lashes  lifted  and  fell  ominously. 

"  Monsieur  the  General  did  her  great  honor  (de  Mont- 
revel  had  not  yet  received  his  marshal's  baton,  which 
came  to  him  later  in  the  same  year).  For  herself  she 
was  but  a  poor  girl.  Her  father — well,  though  she  did 
not  share  his  sentiments,  it  was  well  known  to  the  Gen- 
eral what  her  father  was — a  landless  outlaw,  who  might 
any  day  find  himself  hanged  for  treason,  or  broken  on 
the  wheel.  She  could  not — would  not  listen  to  him. 
His  very  love,  as  declared  by  him,  was  an  insult ;  the 
white  horse  at  the  door,  the  constant  meetings  at  the 
house  of  Eugenie  la  Gracieuse,  would  these  not  soon  be 
known  all  over  the  camp?  And  what  then?  Had  he, 
a  great  soldier  and  gentleman,  ever  thought  of  these 
things  ?  At  least  poor  girls  had  to  think  of  them.  He 
must  never  see  her  again." 

And  so  ten  remorseless  days,  with  the  assistance  of 
half-a-dozen  volumes  of  the  Grand  Cyrus,  Yvette  Foy 
kept  her  word.  The  soldier  of  King  Louis,  general  of 
all  the  armies  of  the  High  Cevennes,  fretted  and  fumed 
like  a  schoolboy.  He  tried  persuasion  upon  the  maid- 
servant at  the  door,  but  that  narrow-eyed  Camisard 
smiled  with  close  grim  mouth  at  his  clumsy  military 
bribes.  He  tried  threatenings  upon  Yvette's  father, 
and  Martin  Foy  told  him  plainly  that  he  counted  the 
loss  of  his  life  but  gain,  and  that  neither  Montrevel  the 
soldier  nor  Louis  the  King  had  gold  that  could  buy  nor 
wheel  that  could  break  the  spirit  that  was  in  him.  And 
meanwhile  Mistress  Yvette  abode  in  her  chamber  unseen 
of  any. 

His  staff  found  their  chief  both  an  angry  and  awkward 
commander  to  deal  with  during  these  days,  and  jested 
each  other  as  to  the  probable  obduracy  of  the  little 
Huguenot.  They  even  went  the  length  of  ofifering  a 
reward  to  the  man  who  would  "  salt  the  tail  of  the  pigeon 
on  the  sugar-plum  tree,"  as  the  matter  in  hand  was  ex- 


TO    CATCH    WOODCOCKS      225 

pressed  in  the  army  of  his  most  Christian  Majesty  Louis 
the  Fourteenth  in  the  opening  years  of  the  eighteenth 
century. 

But,  charm  they  never  so  wisely,  the  turtle-dove 
stayed  in  the  plum-tree — or  what  was  the  same  thing, 
in  her  own  proper  chamber,  with  the  doors  locked  and 
the  windows  fastened,  and  watched  through  the  open 
lace-work  of  the  curtain  the  General  de  Montrevel, 
gnawing  fiercely  his  great  blond  mustaches,  set  spurs  in 
his  beast  as  he  rode  away. 

The  Marquis  did  not  want  to  marry.  He  had  passed 
through  a  life  of  fifty  years  very  well  without  it.  It  was 
a  sacrament  of  the  Church  Catholic  and  Apostolic  of 
which  he  had  never  proposed  to  partake.  But  Yvette 
Foy's  mode  of  treatment  was  new  to  him. 

In  the  early  days  when  she  was  still  anxious  for  his 
protection  of  her  father,  at  the  request  of  the  Marshal 
she  had  permitted  a  famous  miniature  painter,  one 
Deyverdun,  a  renegade  Swiss  from  the  Pays  du  Vaud, 
to  paint  a  picture  of  her — a  mere  head,  he  said,  a  play- 
thing to  show  his  most  Christian  Majesty  (who  was  fond 
of  suchlike).  It  ought  to  have  been  sent  away  long  ere 
this.  The  King  might  even  have  acknowledged  it. 
More  than  three  packets  had  been  sent  to  Versailles 
since  its  completion.  Yet  still  it  remained  in  the  breast- 
pocket of  the  General's  every-day  uniform.  It  was 
never  found  there  and  laid  on  his  table-toilet  by  his 
soldier  servant.  For  each  night  Nicholas  de  Baume, 
Marquis  de  Montrevel,  took  it  carefully  out,  and  having 
shut  the  door,  and  seen  that  there  was  no  one  in  the 
passage,  he  kissed  Deyverdun's  picture.  Then  grum- 
bling that  there  was  no  fool  like  an  old  fool,  he  slipped 
it  under  his  pillow  v/here  his  hand  often  grasped  it  in 
the  night. 

In  a  chamber  high  over  the  river  at  Millau,  looking 
down  on  the  shallow  punts  that  pushed  out  on  the  sleep- 
ing summer  river,  and  upon  the  old  lime-kiln  that  smokes 
a  peaceful  pipe  away  to  the  right,  patiently  doing  its 


226        FLOWER-O'-THE-CORN 

work  century  after  century,  Yvette  read  the  curt  and 
vehement  love-letters  of  Nicholas  de  Baume. 

She  read  and  smiled  to  herself.  Did  she  love  him? 
Of  course  not.  Would  she  love  him?  Yes,  surely — 
on  her  own  terms.  They  were  fervid  letters,  too,  which 
a  few  years  ago  the  general  of  King  Louis  would  have 
laughed  heartily  at  had  he  found  any  of  his  subalterns 
inscribing  such  sentiments  on  paper. 

But  love,  like  necessity,  has  no  laws. 

When  Don  Cupid  is  abroad  the  man  who  may  hold  a 
marshal's  baton  to-morrow,  stands  no  higher  than  the 
meanest  carrier  of  pike  and  musketoon.  And  the  marshal 
burned  red  with  blushing  as  he  tossed  upon  his  sleepless 
bed,  and  thought  of  some  phrases  he  had  used  in  the 
letter  he  had  left  at  the  door  of  the  little  hard-hearted 
Huguenot  that  morning.  He  would  rather  have  lost  a 
battle  than  had  one  of  them  read  out  in  barracks  to  his 
comrades-at-arms. 

Yvette  kept  her  chamber  yet  another  five  days,  send- 
ing the  General  three  scraps  of  paper  in  all,  always  by 
the  hands  of  her  friend  Eugenie  la  Gracieuse. 

Being  wise,  she  counted  nothing  on  words.  She 
passed  without  comment  from  de  Montrevel's  most  fer- 
vent appeals.  She  would  not  consent  to  see  him,  either 
alone  or  in  the  company  of  her  friend. 

On  this  subject  only  Eugenie  knew  her  mind. 

To  her  also  the  Commander-in-Chief  of  the  High 
Cevennes  discovered  his  soul,  or  at  least  so  much  of  it 
as  bore  upon  the  vexed  and  vexing  question  of  little 
Yvette  Foy. 

"  Would  she  consent  to  see  him  under  no  conditions 
of  companionship,  and  with  no  possible  guarantees?" 

Eugenie  smiled  a  knowing  smile.  Yvette,  to  whom 
she  was  little  more  than  cat's-paw  (though  in  her  way 
both  a  kind  and  a  pretty  one)  had  also  been  good  enough 
to  reveal  to  her,  all  so  artlessly  and  innocently,  a  corner 
of  her  mind. 

*'  Yes,"  she  thought.    "  She  might  venture  to  say  that 


TO    CATCH    WOODCOCKS     227 

there  zvas  one  condition  of  companionship  under  which 
an  interview  would  be  granted  to  the  love-sick  veteran 
of  fifty  wars." 

"  And  that?  "  cried  de  Montrevel,  starting  up  eagerly, 
and  coming  toward  Eugenie  la  Gracieuse  as  if  she  had 
been  the  custodian  of  a  great  treasure. 

But  conscious  of  her  power,  she  only  continued  to 
smile.  There  was  a  certain  young  officer  in  the  Maison 
Rouge  in  whom  she  was  interested,  and  she  cared 
nothing  for  proximate  Marechals  already  ripe  in  years. 
Still  Yvette  was  Yvette,  and  not  only  at  liberty  to  please 
herself,  but  quite  certain  to  do  so  in  any  case. 

"  On  what  conditions,  and  in  whose  company,  can  I 
have  an  interview  with  Mademoiselle  Foy?"  cried  the 
now  thrice-eager  soldier. 

"  In  the  company  of  a  priest,  and  on  conditions  that 
you  marry  her !  "  enunciated  the  go-between  with  some 
succinctness. 

De  Montrevel  strode  up  and  down  the  room  for  five 
minutes  while  he  thought  the  matter  out. 

Then  he  suddenly  turned  and  faced  Eugenie. 

"  Has  she  told  you  to  come  here  and  ask  this?"  he 
questioned  with  his  teeth  clenched.  It  seemed  im- 
possible to  talk  thus,  but  the  veteran  did. 

"  No,"  said  Eugenie  la  Gracieuse,  calmly,  "  most  cer- 
tainly not.  Only — you  wished  to  know  my  opinion. 
There  it  is.  You  may  be  guided  by  it  or  not,  just  as 
you  please !  " 

The  Marquis  took  a  night  to  think  the  matter  over. 
Three  times  he  swore  by  all  the  saints  known  to  a  mili- 
tary man  to  give  up  all  thought  of  the  witch.  Twice 
he  opened  the  persiennes  wide  to  throw  the  Swiss's  min- 
iature into  the  Tarn.  Yet  each  time  he  paused  and 
looked  away  up  the  river  toward  the  uncertain  red  loom 
of  the  lime-kiln,  near  which,  he  knew,  was  a  house  and 
a  dark  window,  neither  of  them  visible  to  the  eye  of 
sense. 

But  in  the  morning  he  paid  a  visit,  as  soon  as  decorum 


228        FLOWER-O'-THE-CORN 

permitted,  to  Mademoiselle  la  Gracieuse.  The  profession 
of  confidante  in  affairs  of  the  heart  is  both  a  difficult  and 
a  poorly  paid  one. 

"  I  will  marry  her,"  he  said,  "  go  and  tell  her.  Only 
for  the  present  it  must  be  kept  secret.  The  King  would 
never  make  me  a  Marshal  of  France  if  he  knew." 

And  so,  with  her  toilette  yet  incomplete,  and,  to  tell 
the  truth,  in  the  debonair  French  confusion  which  is  at 
once  so  charming  and  so  comfortable  during  the  fore- 
noon hours,  Eugenie  sped  to  the  house  of  Martin  Foy, 
a  considerable  and  even  excellent  mansion  on  the  river 
front  of  Millau. 

She  delivered  her  message  without  any  great  en- 
thusiasm, adding,  "  But,  of  course,  you  will  never  think 
of  marrying  him.     He  is  old  enough  to  be  your  father." 

She  herself  was  thinking  of  the  young  officer  of  the 
Maison  Rouge — which,  as  every  one  knows,  wears  an 
agreeable  uniform. 

She  was,  therefore,  more  than  ever  astonished,  how- 
ever, when  Yvette  Foy  jumped  up,  and  went  dancing 
and  skipping  about  her  chamber. 

"  Surrender !  "  she  cried,  gayly,  clapping  her  hands, 
"did  I  not  tell  you?  Unconditional  surrender!  That 
is  the  word.  Is  he  not  a  marquis,  a  general,  and,  in 
a  short  month,  may  be  a  marshal  of  France?  What 
matters  a  private  marriage?  I  shall  take  my  own  time 
to  publish  that !  Why,  I  would  marry  him  if  he  were 
old  enough  to  be — my  great — ^^rmf-grandfather !  " 

She  paused  a  moment,  and  her  black  eyes  smiled  a 
wicked  smile  upon  her  friend. 

"  And  besides  I — love — him  !  "  she  said,  slowly. 

Yet  strange  as  it  may  seem,  her  dearest  friend, 
Eugenie  la  Gracieuse,  did  not  quite  believe  her. 


I 


XXVI 

FLOWER-O'-THE-CORN    FINDS    FRIENDS 

BUT  in  spite  of  the  plots  against  the  Camisard 
strongholds,  and  the  well-considered  innocencies 
of  Mistress  Yvette,  there  were  still  hearts  in  the 
world  simply  and  joyously  happy. 

Such  was  that  of  our  sweet  Flower-o'-the-Corn,  when 
looking  down  the  piled  mystery  of  the  street  of  Saint 
Veran  in  the  early  winter  morning,  she  saw  her  father  ap- 
proaching in  company  with  a  young  man.  Both  were 
mounted  on  great  Flemish  cart-horses  and  both  wore 
over  their  other  garments  the  rough  blouse  of  the  ordi- 
nary tiller  of  the  soil. 

But  underneath  the  dirt  and  discomfort  inseparable 
from  such  an  adventure  as  that  which  these  two  had  un- 
dertaken, it  was  impossible  for  Flower-o'-the-Corn  for  a 
moment  to  mistake  the  tall  form,  erect  almost  to  ungain- 
liness,  the  waving  white  locks  and  great,  kindly,  untram- 
melled eyes  of  the  late  chaplain  of  Ardmillan's  regiment. 

Besides,  there  was  with  him — could  it  be?  Yes,  it  was 
the  young  man  whom  she  had  seen — whom  she  had 
known  as  Pierre  the  Wagoner  of  Roche-a-Bayard  and 
Hoo! 

It  seemed  an  impossible  thing,  but  there  he  was,  riding 
by  her  father's  side,  as  if  a  part  of  the  horse.  For  that  is 
the  way  aides  rode  even  during  the  wars  of  my  Lord 
Marlborough,  whatever  the  nature  of  their  other  accom- 
plishments. And  behind  him,  on  another  beast,  swaying 
like  a  well-filled  wool-sack,  was  Bet  Marshall,  with  Billy 
leading  the  remainder  of  the  horses  on  a  string. 

The  crossing  of  the  gorge  of  the  Dourbie  had  been 

229 


230        FLOWER-O'-THE-CORN 

more  easily  accomplished  than  they  had  supposed,  and 
that  by  a  happy  thought  of  Billy  Marshall's  master. 

"  Billy,"  Maurice  Raith  had  said  to  him,  "  can  you 
steal  a  horse  ?  " 

To  his  surprise  Billy  drew  himself  up  to  his  full  height 
of  six  foot  four,  and  his  voice  was  one  of  extreme  indigna- 
tion as  he  answered,  "  And  what  age  does  your  honor  tak' 
me  for,  na?  " 

"  I  should  say  you  were  a  matter  of  twenty-eight  or 
thirty!  "  said  Maurice,  meekly. 

"  An'  maybes,  ye'll  be  takkin'  me  for  a  muckle  gutsy 
plooman  frae  Lanerick  or  the  Shire?  "  inquired  Billy. 

"  I  know  very  well  that  yot>  are  a  Galloway  gypsy, 
Billy,"  said  Maurice,  soothingly.  "  I  have  often  heard 
that  you  were  born  and  brought  up  in  Kirkcudbright!  " 

"  Wcel  than,"  said  Billy,  with  the  air  of  one  who  has 
just  proved  a  point  to  mathematical  demonstration, 
"  dinna  you  be  askin'  Billy  Marshall  at  this  time  o'  day 
gin  he  can  steal  a  horse!  Man,  he  could  steal  them  by 
the  score — that  is,  if  the  wretched  garrons  hereabouts 
were  worth  tying  to  a  head-raip!  " 

"  Then,  Billy,"  said  Maurice,  clinching  the  matter, 
"  here  are  nine  good  horses ;  if  we  do  not  get  them  across 
yon  blue  valley,  we  will  never  see  hilt  nor  hair  o'  them — 
no,  nor  the  price  o'  them.  Just  consider  that  they  are  to 
be  stolen,  and  that  Kelton-hill  is  up  yonder  where  the 
houses  of  Saint  Veran  are  dark  against  the  blue.  Could 
ye  manage  it?  It  is  worth  twenty  gold  guineas  if  you 
do!" 

"  May  I  never  tak  my  black-thorn  in  at  yae  side  o'  Kel- 
ton-hill an'  oot  at  the  ither  again  wi'  ony  credit,  gin  I  fail 
ye!  May  I  never  gang  back  to  the  decent  Cameronian 
regiment — may  I  be  hangit  for  half-an-hour  by  the 
provost's  watch  as  a  black  deserter  gin  I  dinna!  'Steal 
them  ' — quo  he — I  wad  think  it  black  and  bitter  shame 
in  a  man-body  come  to  my  time  o'  life  if  he  couldna  steal 
as  mony  o'  anither  man's  cattle,  let  alane  his  maister's. 
Aye,  an  sae  could  Bet,  wha  hasna  a  drap  o'  bluid  in  her 


FINDS    FRIENDS  231 

body  that  isna  the  blackest  blood  of  the  Faas.  An'  ye  a' 
ken  it's  the  Faas  that  hae  keepit  the  burgh  hangman  in 
decent  employment  an'  pease-meal  brose  ever  since  there 
was  a  kingdom  o'  bonny  Scotland.  Steal  a  horse  indeed! 
Man,  ye  dinna  ken  what  ye  are  talkin'  aboot,  but  I'll  hae 
nane  o'  your  siller — na,  na,  I'll  steal  for  love  and  maister- 
service  as  an  honest  man  should!  " 

If  he  had  thought  of  the  matter  as  a  feat  of  mere  scout- 
ing or  spying,  even  as  the  removal  of  certain  animals  from 
one  side  of  a  valley  to  the  other,  Billy,  ignorant  of  the 
language  as  he  was,  would  certainly  have  blundered  into 
the  first  French  patrol  and  been  shot  for  his  pains,  to- 
gether with  his  companions.  But  the  afifair  once  put  be- 
fore him  as  the  stealing  of  so  many  good  Flemish  horses, 
the  thing  was  as  good  as  accomplished. 

At  all  events  here  they  were  riding  easily  into  Saint 
Veran,  up  the  narrow,  not  over-clean  street,  Maurice 
looking  every  way  up  and  down  the  fronts  of  the  houses 
for  the  first  sight  of  a  girl  who  had  just  thrown  down  her 
plain  white  seam  (not  embroidery,  like  Yvette's),  and  was 
now  pattering  down  the  stone  stairs  as  fast  as  her  little 
light  feet  could  carry  her — to  meet  and  welcome — her 
father. 

Now  Flower-o'-the-Corn  had  been  angry  with  Maurice 
Raith.  But,  to  tell  the  truth,  not  too  angry.  The  woman 
naturally  blames  the  woman — even  when  the  contrary 
can  be  proven  to  the  satisfaction  of  a  jury.  Which  is  a 
reason  why  in  all  countries  where  that  overrated  institu- 
tion exists,  juries  consist  exclusively  of  men. 

But  in  not  a  few  cases  the  less  of  law  the  more  of  jus- 
tice. And  Flower-o'-the-Corn's  anxiety  to  be  quite  fair 
to  Pierre  the  Wagoner  (or,  as  he  was  soon  to  appear, 
Maurice  Raith)  resulted  far  more  from  an  innate  sus- 
picion of  the  good  faith  of  Yvette  Foy  than  from  any  rea- 
soned belief  in  the  excellence  of  the  young  man's  inten- 
tions. 

For  though  a  woman  of  the  type  of  Mademoiselle 
Yvette  can  take  in  a  man,  and  many  men — aye,  and  in 


232        FLOWER-0*-THE-CORN 

some  instances  keep  up  the  deception  till  the  dead  bells 
ring,  she  cannot  long  deceive  a  woman,  bad  or  good.  The 
bad  sees  through  her  by  the  suspicion  which  is  bred  of 
kindred  experience — the  good  by  instinct. 

So  it  chanced  that  Frances  Wellwood  was  more  will- 
ing to  be  reconciled  to  Maurice  Raith  than  the  young 
man  had  anticipated  after  his  last  interview.  And  as  she 
appeared  guarding  her  skirts  with  feminine  daintiness  on 
the  doorstep  of  the  house  of  the  old  pair  with  whom  she 
had  found  shelter,  Maurice  thought  that  he  had  never 
seen  her  look  more  beautiful,  not  even  that  day  when  he 
had  chanced  upon  her  first  among  the  Namur  cornfields. 

The  cobble-stones  of  the  hill  village,  still  moist  and 
slippery  with  the  heavy  white  frosts  of  the  night,  the 
drabbled  fronts  of  the  houses  once  white  with  lime-wash, 
now  all  colors  that  were  slimy  and  unpleasant,  made  a 
striking  background  for  the  tall  slender  figure  of  the  girl, 
shrinking  gracefully  within,  yet  eager  to  be  without. 
Well-fitting  boots,  made  by  the  regimental  bootmaker 
when  she  was  at  once  the  plaything  and  the  mascot  of 
Ardmillan's  hardbitten  Presbyterian  regiment,  peeped 
from  beneath  the  upheld  skirt.  Then  the  corn-ripe  hair, 
the  lips  of  coral,  the  eyes  of  turquoise  blue,  the  dainty 
gladness  of  her  action  as  she  leaped  fairly  and  squarely 
into  her  father's  arms,  all  these  touched  the  young  sol- 
dier to  the  heart.  It  was  difificult  to  say  which  fascinated 
him  the  most. 

Stout  old  Patrick  received  his  daughter's  impulsive  ad- 
vance as  if  at  the  pike  exercise  he  had  been  ordered  to 
prepare  to  receive  cavalry.  As  for  Maurice  he  only 
wished  that  Flower-o'-the-Corn  had  somehow  missed  her 
aim. 

She  kissed  her  father,  first  on  one  cheek  and  then  on 
the  other,  in  Continental  fashion. 

"  Carry  me  in!  "  she  cried,. her  arms  clasped  about  her 
father's  neck.  "  Oh,  it  is  so  dirty  here!  And — I  thought 
you  were  never — never  coming,"  she  added,  somewhat 
irrelevantly. 


FINDS    FRIENDS  233 

And  (to  the  wish  that  is  father  to  the  thought)  she 
seemed,  by  an  eye-glance  hke  the  sunht  sky  for  bright- 
ness, to  include  Maurice  in  the  emphasis. 

"  I  thought  yon  were  never  coming,"  he  murmured  to 
himself,  and  that  more  than  once. 

It  was  her  father  who  spoke  first,  when  once  he  had 
deposited  his  daughter  on  the  firm  and  walkable  earth  of 
the  court-yard. 

"  This  is  the  young  man,"  he  began,  taking  Maurice's 
hand  affectionately,  "  known  to  us  as  the  wagoner  who 
brought  the  direct  and  official  communications  from  the 
camp  of  the  allies.  Like  ourselves,  and  for  a  similar  rea- 
son, he  has  been  compelled  to  keep  the  secret  for  some 
time.  He  has  now  made  it  known  to  me  that  he  is  Cap- 
tain Maurice  Raith,  of  the  staff  of  my  Lord  Marlborough, 
sent  hither  on  most  secret  and  important  political  busi- 
ness. The  secret  of  his  identity  is,  I  am  sure,  safe  with 
you,  my  daughter." 

Flower-o'-the-Corn  bowed  distantly,  but  made  no  re- 
mark. Whatever  her  final  intentions  with  regard  to  him, 
she  had  no  idea  of  letting  the  young  man  ofif  too  cheaply. 
She  might  forgive,  but  she  had  not  forgotten  the  last 
time  she  had  seen  him  in  the  parlor  of  the  Bon  Chretien, 
nor  yet  under  what  circumstances. 

"  Let  me  introduce  you  to  my  host  and  hostess,"  she 
said;  "they  are  kind  old  people,  childless,  for  this  place 
more  than  sufficiently  rich,  and  will  be  delighted  to  wel- 
come you.  Indeed,  I  have  been  pestered  out  of  my  Hfe 
during  these  last  weeks  by  people  who  wanted  to  know 
when  it  was  likely  that  you,  my  father,  would  pay  them  a 
visit." 

She  was  proceeding  to  ignore  Captain  Maurice  some- 
what markedly,  taking  her  father  by  the  hand,  in  order 
to  guide  him  up  the  dark  stairway.  But  Patrick  Well- 
wood  had  old-fashioned  notions  of  deportment,  and  would 
by  no  means  precede  the  young  man. 

"  Nay,  my  daughter,"  he  said,  "  he  is  in  a  manner  our 
guest — or  at  least  yours!  Captain  Raith,  will  you  be  good 
enough  to  offer  Mistress  Frances  your  arm?  " 


234        FLOWER-O'-THE-CORN 

Flower-o'-the-Corn  had  therefore  no  choice  but  to  put 
her  hand  on  the  young  man's  sleeve,  so  that  the  mere 
Hght  touch  (and  it  was  no  more  than  a  feather-weight, 
being  indeed  as  near  to  nothing  as  the  young  woman 
could  make  it)  caused  his  heart  to  beat  violently. 

"  Captain  Raith?"  she  repeated,  icily  enough,  "did  I 
understand  my  father  to  say?  " 

"That  is  my  name!"  said  Maurice,  innocently.  He 
had  no  thought  of  guile  in  his  heart,  though  he  had  some 
reason  to  be  ashamed  of  the  circumstances  under  which 
Frances  Wellwood  had  last  seen  him,  and  would  have 
given  all  his  present  wealth  (a  small  matter  enough)  and 
all  his  future  prospects  to  be  able  to  clear  up  the  matter 
to  her  satisfaction. 

Of  this,  however,  for  the  present  there  seemed  small 
chance. 

"  Captain  of  which  service?"  said  Flower-o'-the-Corn, 
with  a  glance  at  the  red  uniform  of  the  Maison  du  Roi, 
which  Maurice  still  wore  under  his  wagoner's  blouse. 

The  young  man  laughed,  a  cheerful  hearty  laugh,  good 
to  hear. 

"Of  the  English  service,  of  course!"  he  answered. 
"  I  was  formerly  of  the  Cameronians,  along  with  our 
friend  behind  there,  Billy  Marshall,  who  is  in  charge  of 
the  horses." 

"  How,  then,  came  you  by  this  pretty  thing?  "  said 
Frances,  touching  the  red  uniform  with  her  hand. 

"  That  I  cannot  say,"  he  replied.  "  I  had  thought  to 
have  brought  with  me  my  stafif  coat,  with  some  idea  that 
if  taken  by  the  French,  I  might  have  had  at  least  one 
chance  of  not  being  hung  for  a  spy.  But  some  fairy  must 
have  been  abroad  the  night  when  the  wagons  were  un- 
loaded, for  when  the  package  was  finally  opened,  we 
turned  out  the  uniform  of  the  Maison  Rouge  of  the  King 
of  France!  " 

"  Ah!  "  said  Frances,  leaning  a  little  more  heavily  upon 
his  arm.  The  stairs  were  a  little  steeper  just  at  that  point. 
Then  she  added  softly  to  herself,  "  Methinks  I  could  put 


FINDS    FRIENDS  235 

my  hand  upon  the  fairy  who  was  abroad  that  night,  with- 
out too  great  difficuUy." 

Maurice  Raith  went  on,  conscious  only  of  the  relaxed 
severity  of  her  voice. 

"  But  after  all  the  matter  has  turned  out  well.  For  the 
dress  has  been  of  use  to  us  on  more  than  one  occasion!  " 

And  he  proceeded  to  tell  how,  in  company  with  Cati- 
nat,  he  had  rescued  Yvette  Foy  from  the  clutches  of  the 
Cadets  of  the  Cross. 

Flower-o'-the-Corn's  hand  dropped  wholly  from  his 
arm. 

"You  mean  Madame  la  Marechale  de  Montrevel!" 
she  said.  And  then,  seeing  Maurice  stare  aghast,  she 
added,  sharply,  "  Oh,  no,  it  is  not  I  who  have  lost  my 
wits!  Did  you  not  know  Yvette  and  she  are  one  and  the 
same  person?" 


XXVII 

THE    THING    MOST    WONDERFUL    IN    ALL    THE 
WORLDS 

MONSIEUR  and  Madame  Montbeliard,  the  host 
and  hostess  of  the  dainty  maiden  who  had  so 
marvellously  been  transported  to  them  across 
the  gorge  of  the  Dourbie,  were  equally  glad  to  welcome 
the  celebrated  minister  from  Geneva  and  his  young 
friend.  That  both  were  of  Scottish  blood  in  no  way  de- 
tracted from  their  popularity  among  the  Huguenots,  at 
least  at  that  time.  For  ever  since  the  Revocation  of  the 
Edict  of  Nantes  an  ever-increasing  flood  of  immigrants 
had  poured  across  the  Channel,  and  already  there  were 
few  among  the  Camisards  who  had  not  friends  in  London 
or  the  Eastern  Counties,  even  in  Edinburgh,  in  Fife,  and 
the  Lothians. 

It  was  not  long,  therefore,  before  Monsieur  and 
Madame  Montbeliard  had  conveyed  Patrick  Wellwood 
to  an  upper  chamber,  where  was  hidden  from  prying  and 
inquisitorial  eyes  a  precious  store  of  souvenirs  of  the  old 
Temple  of  the  Consistory  (situated  in  a  certain  small  and 
inconspicuous  street  known  by  the  name  of  Thread- 
needle),  of  the  Patent  Church  in  Soho,  of  the  Pyramid  in 
the  Seven  Dials.  Here  also  was  a  letter  of  the  great  Mar- 
quis de  Ruvigny,  who  went  every  day  by  water  to  wor- 
ship at  the  new  church  which  he  had  caused  to  be  built 
at  Greenwich,  addressed  to  good  Monsieur  Severin,  the 
minister  thereof,  who  in  his  youth  had  been  a  friend  of 
Monsieur  and  Madame  Montbeliard,  and  even  yet  fre- 
quently corresponded  with  them. 

236 


THING  MOST  WONDERFUL     237 

But  during  this  time  there  were  two  left  below  stairs 
who  were  quite  otherwise  employed.  The  jealousy  of  the 
actions  of  young  girls,  so  common  in  conventual  and 
Catholic  France,  had  not,  at  that  time,  attacked  the  Prot- 
estant departments,  and,  indeed.  Monsieur  and  Madame 
Montbeliard  thought  only  of  the  rich  spirituality  and 
abounding  grace  of  the  letters  which  were  to  be  opened 
to  the  perusal  of  the  celebrated  pastor  from  Geneva. 

The  young  people  were,  therefore,  left  together  with- 
out a  thought.  And  as  a  first  proof  that  this  confidence 
had  been  rightly  reposed  in  them,  they  looked  in  con- 
trary directions  out  of  different  windows,  and  spoke  never 
a  word. 

But  no  letters,  however  building  up  spiritually,  nor  any 
silence,  however  predetermined,  can  bind  the  flight  of 
time,  or  long  close  the  mouths  of  two  young  people  who 
have  something  to  say  to  each  other. 

Maurice  had  by  this  time  thrown  ofif  his  blouse,  and, 
as  Billy  Marshall  had  not  yet  brought  him  his  ordinary 
attire,  he  found  himself  still  in  the  by  no  means  unbecom- 
ing dress  of  the  Maison  Rouge.  Presently  from  his  post 
at  the  window  he  vented  a  long  sigh,  hollow  and  desolate 
as  the  winds  which  draw  and  withdraw  through  the 
gouffres  of  Padirac. 

Flower-o'-the-Corn  smiled,  but  secretly  and  to  herself. 

Maurice  sighed  again,  a  sigh  so  mighty  this  time  that 
the  curtains  rustled  as  at  the  rising  of  the  valley  wind 
down  by  the  Dourbie. 

Whereat  Flower-o'-the-Corn  laughed  outright,  and 
then  immediately  felt  that  she  had  made  a  mistake.  For 
instantly,  as  if  stung  by  the  rippling  scorn,  Maurice  left 
his  place  and  was  standing  by  her  side.  He  did  not  vent- 
ure to  touch  her,  however,  and  she  bent  her  eyes  steadily 
upon  her  white  seam.  She  regained  her  gravity  with  an 
effort,  and  for  the  moment,  at  least,  neither  laughed  nor 
smiled.  She  only  sewed  as  if  her  livelihood  depended 
upon  the  diligence  of  her  fingers. 

"That  was  cruel  of  you,  do  you  know?"  he  said,  his 


238        FLOWER-O'-THE-CORN 

fingers  itching  to  lay  themselves  upon  the  waves  and 
tangles  of  her  corn-red  hair,  and  the  clear  sweeping  curve 
of  her  white  neck.  He  could  not  see  her  face,  and  in  the 
circumstances  that  was,  perhaps,  as  well. 

Flower-o'-the-Corn  looked  up  at  him  with  a  kind  of 
surprise. 

"  What  was  cruel  of  me — to  laugh?  "  she  said;  "  I  am 
sorry!  I  suppose  you  sighed  because — because  Yvette  is 
not  here.    But  /  cannot  help  that,  you  know!  " 

Then  she  shook  her  head  sadly,  as  if  grieving  over  his 
iniquity. 

"  And  she  a  married  woman,  too,"  she  added,  "  though, 
of  course,  you  did  not  know  that  at  the  time!  " 

The  young  man  could  not  keep  his  hands  to  himself  any 
longer.  He  laid  one  upon  each  of  the  shoulders  of  the 
girl.  Rising  to  her  feet  she  straightened  herself  haugh- 
tily. And  taking  one  after  the  other  dropped  it  in  the  air 
as  if  it  had  been  a  spider. 

"  You  forget,"  she  said,  bitterly,  "  /  am  neither  Yvette 
Foy,  nor  yet — Madame  Marechale  de  Montrevel!  " 

"Have  you  no  pity  in  you?"  said  Maurice,  meekly; 
"  you  know  that  I  have  made  a  grievous  mistake.  I — I 
never  loved  that — woman." 

"  Then  the  greater  the  shame,"  said  Frances,  quick  as 
a  flash;  "  not  that  the  matter  interests  me,"  she  added,  re- 
suming her  sewing  calmly.  "  I  have  good  eyes.  They  do 
not  deceive  me.  I  am  not  under  any  necessity  to  find 
excuses  for  young  men  who  make  such  mistakes!  They 
are  all  too  apt  to  repeat  them !  " 

"  There  is  nothing  I  should  like  better,"  said  Maurice, 
daringly.  He  began  to  feel  that  he  had  been  long  enough 
acting  as  nether  millstone. 

Flower-o'-the-Corn  rose  haughtily,  folding  up  her  sew- 
ing as  she  did  so. 

"  I  must  go  to  my  father!  I  think  he  is  calling  me,'* 
she  said,  with  what  severity  she  could  command. 

"  On  the  contrary,"  said  the  young  man,  "  I  hear  him 
expressing  himself  in  excellent  French  concerning  (if  I 


THING  MOST  WONDERFUL     239 

mistake  not)  the  effect  of  the  victory  of  La  Hogue  upon 
the  prospects  of  the  Camisard  cause." 

"  At  any  rate,  I  shall  go  to  him,"  said  Flower-o'-the- 
Corn  with  a  persistent,  but  not  yet  completely  convinc- 
ing, determination. 

Now  what  happened  just  after  that  it  is  hard  for  the 
most  accurate  chronicler  to  say. 

Frances  Wellwood  had  a  needle  in  her  hand.  So  much 
is  certain.  And  as  Maurice  Raith  took  a  step  nearer  to 
her,  something  occurred. 

"  Now  I  told  you,"  she  said,  laying  her  hand  on  her 
breast  as  if  to  recover  her  breath,  "  I  am  not  Yvette  Foy, 
and — and — I  hope  it  did  hurt.     You  had  no  right." 

The  needle  stood  out  threateningly,  like  a  bayonet 
which  had  been  fleshed  once,  and  is  again  at  the  ready. 

Maurice  was  holding  his  wrist,  a  look  of  ludicrous  peni- 
tence upon  his  face. 

"  Yes,"  repeated  Flower-o'-the-Corn,  viciously,  "  I 
hope  it  did  hurt.    I  am  very  glad  of  it." 

The  which,  certainly,  is  not  a  wholly  Christian  senti- 
ment. 

And  after  that,  somehow,  the  explanation  came  of  itself 
— came  with  a  rush  like  the  Raith  water  in  spate. 

"  Do  not  let  us  be  held  asunder  by  the  foolish  impulse 
of  a  moment,  the  vanity  of  an  hour,"  pleaded  Maurice; 
"  I  have  loved  you,  Frances,  you  alone — ever  since  I  saw 
you  stand  among  the  ripe  wheat  on  the  Brabant  plain, 
with  the  sky  above  you  no  bluer  than  your  eyes." 

It  was  somehow  pleasant  to  hear  words  like  these  from 
Maurice  Raith,  but  the  daughter  of  the  chaplain  of  Ard- 
millan's  regiment  was  not  of  those  who  are  easily  won. 

"  She  has  black  eyes,"  she  went  on,  maliciously;  "  they 
are  very  beautiful;  I  am  sure  you  told  her  that  you  pre- 
ferred such!  " 

"  Indeed — indeed — I  never  did!  "  said  Maurice,  with  a 
quite  unnecessary  fervor.  "  It  was  all  the  doing  of  that — 
that  minx!  " 

"  '  When  in  doubt  abuse  the  woman  ' — yes,  that  is  an 


240        FLOWER-O'-THE-CORN 

old  motto,"  said  Flower-o'-the-Corn,  philosophically,  "  in- 
deed, as  old  as  Adam,  the  first  man,  who  said,  '  The 
woman  Thou  gavest  me,  she  gave  me  to  eat!  '  " 

All  the  same  Frances  did  not  doubt  him  for  a  moment, 
and  that  in  spite  of  Yvette  having  undoubtedly  saved  her 
life — and  more  than  her  life — at  the  great  cradle  of  Saint 
Veran,  when  she  fell  into  the  hands  of  the  Cadets  of  the 
Cross. 

But  then,  even  good  women  never  get  their  dues  from 
their  own  sex — how  much  less  the  others! 

Maurice,  however,  was  in  no  way  discouraged.  She 
made  no  further  movement  to  leave  the  room,  and  the 
young  aide  of  my  Lord  Marlborough  knew  that  so  long 
as  a  woman  does  that,  she  will  listen  to  reason — or,  as  the 
case  may  be,  to  unreason.    At  all  events,  she  will  listen. 

There  was  a  bright  flush  of  rose  on  the  girl's  cheeks 
which  had  not  been  there  when  she  sprang  daintily  into 
her  father's  arms,  or  even  when  she  had  come  upstairs  so 
poutingly  upon  Maurice  Raith's  arm.  She  stood  examin- 
ing her  seam,  apparently  lost  in  admiration  at  the  fineness 
of  the  stitches.  She  stood  sideways  to  Maurice,  so  that 
he  could  only  partially  see  her  face,  which  was  in  shadow. 

"  Frances,"  he  continued  manfully,  "  I  love  you.  I 
have  loved  you  a  long  time.  I  have  told  your  father  that 
I  love  you.  He  knows  who  I  am,  and  at  least  he  does  not 
disapprove.  But,  of  course,  that  has  nothing  to  do  with 
you  and  me.  You  must  like  me  or  leave  me  on  your  own 
account.  I  do  not  ask  you  to  be  in  any  haste.  One  thing 
only  do  I  require  of  you  now.  To  one  question  only  do  I 
believe  that  I  am  entitled  to  an  answer !  " 

Here  Flower-o'-the-Corn  moved  her  feet  uneasily  on 
the  uncovered  wooden  floor,  but  she  did  not  speak. 

"  Do  you  love  any  man  so  much  that  you  feel  there  is 
no  room  in  your  heart  for  me?  " 

The  blue  eyes  of  Flower-o'-the-Corn  flashed  upon  him 
almost  more  mischievously,  though  less  wickedly,  than 
those  other  black  ones  of  Yvette  Foy. 
.   "Yes!"  she  said.     That,  and  no  more.     He  was  an- 


THING  MOST  WONDERFUL     241 

swered,  and  now  she  looked  full  at  him  as  if  daring  him 
to  continue. 

The  sunburnt,  out-of-doors  hue  upon  Maurice  Raith's 
face  paled  instantly  to  a  ghastly  paleness.  His  finger- 
nails gripped  deep  into  his  palms,  his  head  grew  suddenly 
light,  the  room  turned  round,  and  had  he  not  been  near 
the  window-sill  he  might  have  fallen.  The  girl's  answer, 
coming  sharp  as  a  pistol-shot,  for  the  moment  paralyzed 
him. 

The  blue  eyes  followed  his  every  movement  at  first 
with  doubt,  to  which  followed  surprise.  Then  came  com- 
punction, and  lastly  Flower-o'-the-Corn  added  softly, 
"  / — meant — my — father!  " 

Brought  up  as  Frances  had  been  among  the  talk  of 
men,  the  constant  alternation  (as  it  were)  of  a  sober  love- 
making  and  the  Shorter  Catechism,  she  could  hardly  be- 
lieve that  the  matter  could  be  so  serious  to  a  man  as  she 
knew  it  must  be  to  a  woman,  whose  fate  it  is  to  suflfer  or 
rejoice  all  her  life  long,  according  to  her  heart's  choice. 

And  above  all  an  aide,  a  favorite  of  my  Lord  Marl- 
borough's, who  had  declared  that  till  a  man  has  been  a 
dozen  times  in  love  he  does  not  know  either  how  to  tell 
a  lie  or  how  to  write  a  diplomatic  letter!  It  was  incon- 
ceivable! Yes;  she  liked  the  young  man.  She  was  ready 
to  find  him  interesting.  Her  father  was  on  his  side.  So 
far,  good !  But  as  she  looked  at  the  ghastly  pallor, 
the  sudden  shaking  of  the  pillars  of  being,  she  felt  that 
this  was  something  mightier  than  aught  she  had  yet  ex- 
perienced. 

So  many  men  had  come  to  her  father's  quarters  in  the 
camp — old  men  of  the  regiment  with  a  genuine  interest 
in  religion,  who  remembered  a  time  when  she  had  sat 
upon  their  knees,  or  who  for  reasons  of  their  own  affected 
to  remember — that  Flower-o'-the-Corn  was  never  quite 
sure  which  of  the  two  questions  she  would  be  called  upon 
to  answer,  "  Do  you  love  me?  "  or  "  What  is  the  chief  end 
of  man?  " 

But  this  young  man  was  somehow  different  from  all 


242        FLOWER-O'-THE-CORN 

the  others.  There  was  no  affectation  about  those  palUd 
Hps,  that  sudden  ebbing  of  the  tide  of  Ufe  with  which  she 
found  herself  face  to  face.  Compunction  took  hold  upon 
her  suddenly.  For  Frances  Wellwood  had  a  tender  heart 
— not  when  it  suited  her,  like  Yvette  Foy — but  always, 
and  because  she  could  not  help  it. 

She  held  out  her  hand  impulsively.  There  was  no 
needle  in  it  this  time.   "  I  am  sorry,"  she  said,  very  simply. 

And  so,  while  the  voice  of  Patrick  Wellwood  rose  and 
fell  in  the  exposition  of  the  true  doctrine  of  John  Calvin, 
and  the  rustling  of  letters  spiritual  and  letters  contro- 
versial reached  their  ears  from  above,  it  came  to  these  two 
that  they  loved  each  the  other  with  a  great  love,  and  for 
once  Maurice  Raith  blessed  his  stars  that  the  Five  Points 
of  Doctrine,  the  Divine  Decrees,  Freewill  and  Fore- 
knowledge Absolute,  take  some  considerable  time  to  state 
and  settle. 

For  whatsoever  trials  there  were  awaiting  them,  and 
what  dangers  soever  loomed  up  in  the  near  future,  the 
great  event,  the  greatest  in  any  single  life,  had  happened. 
A  woman  out  of  a  pure  heart  had  committed  herself  with- 
out reserve  or  backdrawing  to  the  man  who  told  her  that 
he  loved  her. 

Revolutions  and  empires,  the  rise  and  fall  of  great 
regalities,  are  not  greater  than  this.  And  for  this  reason. 
Without  this  yielding  and  taking  of  women  and  men  no 
kingdom  could  stand,  no  revolution  succeed — nothing 
either  great  or  small  be  brought  to  pass.  The  genera- 
tions of  men  would  pass  away,  and  the  earth  itself  roll 
through  space,  barren,  lifeless,  and  desolate  as  the  dimpled 
lava  deserts  of  our  attendant  moon. 


XXVIII 

VAE    VICTIS! 

THOUGH  Cavalier  had  promised  to  do  what  in 
him  lay  to  end  the  war,  yet  no  man  knew  better 
than  he  how  long  and  unkindly  was  the  road 
which  lay  between  promise  and  performance.  He  was 
really  chief  of  the  entire  Camisard  revolt,  though  nomi- 
nally of  one  only  of  the  five  legions  into  which  they  were 
divided. 

More  than  once  Yvette  Foy  was  compelled  to  exert 
her  personal  influence  over  the  young  Camisard  leader, 
before  he  could  be  brought  to  the  point  of  a  secret  meet- 
ing with  de  Montrevel.  Indeed  it  was  not  till  all  hope 
of  active  military  assistance  from  the  British  had  died 
away,  that  Cavalier  agreed  to  the  momentous  interview. 

"  You  have  no  hope  save  in  the  clemency  of  the  King," 
urged  Yvette ;  "  the  English  will  not  help  you  to  more 
than  a  little  powder  and  shot.  Their  sails  have  disap- 
peared over  the  horizon  as  swiftly  as  they  came.  They 
will  not  return.  You  are  here  on  these  bleak  moun- 
tains, surrounded  on  all  sides  by  hostile  populations. 
What  chance,  think  you,  is  there  for  a  few  hundred 
peasants  against  the  armies  of  France  ?  " 

"  We  have  held  these  same  mountains  for  five  years — 
we  poor  ill-armed  folks !  "  said  Cavalier,  stung  by  the 
girl's  tone  more  than  by  her  words.  But  all  the  same 
he  did  not  dare  to  look  at  her.  That  he  still  felt  was 
dangerous.  They  were  standing  close  together  in  the 
window  of  the  parlor  of  the  Bon  Chretien,  watching  the 
whirling  snow-flakes  that  came  to  them  over  the  huge 
whale-backed  table-land  of  the  Causse  de  Larzac,  now 
more  than  ever  barren  and  desolate. 

243 


244        FLOWER-O'-THE-CORN 

"  But  what  sort  of  years  ?  "  retorted  the  girl,  sharply ; 
"  were  they  not  years  when  the  King  was  compelled  to 
fight  against  all  the  powers  of  Europe?  That  cannot 
go  on  for  ever,  and,  then,  what  will  you  do  against  the 
armies  which  have  vanquished  Spain,  fought  on  all  the 
borderlands  of  the  empire,  conquered  the  Low  Coun- 
tries? They  will  overflow  you,  as  the  Tarn  in  flood 
sweeps  away  a  sandbank  of  the  summer  droughts!" 

Jean  Cavalier  waved  his  hand  at  the  swirl  of  the  snow- 
storm without. 

"  There,  at  least,  is  one  of  our  defences,"  he  said. 
"  The  soldiers  of  your  fine  de  Montrevel  will  think  twice 
before  they  attack  La  Cavalerie  with  that  to  guard  us 
front  and  rear,  on  this  side  and  on  that !  " 

Yvette  Foy  bit  her  lip  secretly,  and  promised  herself 
that  he  should  yet  pay  for  this  obstinacy.  But  she  knew 
that  she  had  too  strong  a  hold  upon  her  victim.  It  was 
simply  a  question  of  time  . 

"  Bah !  "  she  cried,  ''  you  think  so,  do  you  ?  I  took 
you  for  a  soldier.     I  see — you  are  only " 

"  What?  "  interrupted  Jean  Cavalier,  the  red  rushing 
up  hotly  to  his  brow.  He  thought  she  was  about  to  call 
him  "  the  Genevan  baker's  boy,"  as  even  those  of  his 
own  sect  who  scorned  him  never  scrupled  to  do. 

"  A  Caussenard  ram  that  butts  at  a  wall  with  his  head 
down !  "  said  the  girl,  smiling. 

Now,  perhaps,  because  Jean  Cavalier  had  lost  the 
Voice  that  spoke  in  his  soul,  there  came  to  him  a  clearer 
sense  than  ever  before  of  the  hopelessness  of  the  strife. 

"  True,  true !  "  he  murmured,  more  to  himself  than  to 
her,  "  it  is  true.  I  am  even  as  one  that  strikes  out  his 
brains  wilfully  against  a  stone  wall." 

"  Ah,  if  there  were  not  others — who  trust  you — who 
love  you,"  she  said,  softly,  putting  her  hand  upon  his 
arm,  "  you  might  have  a  right  to  throw  away  your  life. 
But  you  know,  alas !  all  too  well — that  your  life  is 
precious,  most  precious,  to  others — to  me  !  " 

Jean    Cavalier   was    silent.      The   snow-flakes   which 


VAE    VICTIS!  245 

crowded  wilderingly  without,  jostling  each  other  in  their 
haste  to  reach  the  ground,  were  not  more  wayward  and 
fitfully  confused  than  his  thoughts.  Hitherto  the  young 
general  of  the  Camisards  had  marched  breast-forward 
to  a  clearly  defined  goal.  Now  the  storm  of  his  passions, 
the  blind  impulses  that  came  to  him  from  without,  set 
him  flitting  and  floating  like  a  snow-flake  wind-blown 
through  a  tormented  chaos  of  grayness,  going  he  knew 
not  whither. 

He  looked  up  at  the  girl.  There  was  an  appeal  in  his 
eyes — a  kind  of  dumb  agony,  possible  only  to  the  young 
when  they  first  find  themselves  in  the  grip  of  fate. 

"  Why — oh,  why  do  you  strive  to  make  me  unfaithful 
to  the  Voice?  What  is  it  to  you?"  he  said,  with  a 
certain  pathos  which  was  yet  not  reproach,  but  rather 
a  confession  of  his  own  weakness  and  of  the  supremacy 
of  his  adversary's  strength. 

"  Do  /  deserve  nothing  at  your  hands  ?  "  she  said  in 
a  low  and  thrilling  whisper.  "  Is  all  I  have  done — all 
I  have  given  up,  nothing  to  you?  " 

*'  God  knows  it  is  everything  to  me,  Yvette,"  he  made 
answer ;  "  but  remember,  I  too  have  given  up  my  all 
for  you — my  people,  my  father's  house,  the  Voice  that 
spake  to  me,  the  Pillar  of  Fire  that  moved  before — God 
and  His  sacraments — all  these  are  lost  to  me !  Have  I 
truly  gained  you  ?  " 

She  put  her  palms  against  his  breast  and  pushed  him 
a  little  away  from  her. 

"  Ah,  I  see — now  you  would  go  back — you  think  I 
am  not  worth  the  sacrifice !  "  she  murmured,  soft  and 
cooing  like  a  midsummer  dove  on  the  wood-edges  when 
its  mate  sits  brooding  on  the  nest. 

"  No,  by  the  throne  and  Him  that  sitteth  thereon,  you 
are  not !  "  burst  out  the  young  man,  roughly.  Then, 
making  a  gesture  of  hopeless  resignation  with  his  hands, 
he  added,  "  You  are  not  worth  it,  I  know — but,  'fore 
God,  I  cannot  help  it.  You  have  taken  my  very  soul 
in  your  net !  " 


246        FLOWER-O'-THE-CORN 

Then  arose  the  Woman  to  whom  (for  the  sins  of  men) 
power  is  given  to  sway  them  in  their  weaknesses.  Her 
face  was  jubilant,  her  eyes,  dark  and  moist — with  tri- 
umph, not  with  tears — were  fixed  upon  the  bowed  head 
of  the  young  man.  A  smile  that  was  not  good  to  see 
curved  her  crimson  lips  into  something  like  a  sneer. 
Ah,  he  was  one  among  many,  verily — but  such  an  one. 

The  mood  passed,  and  she  leaned  forward  with  her 
hand  on  his  shoulder.  "  You  will  come  to-night,  then 
— to  see  the  Marshal  ?  "  she  murmured  in  his  ear. 

"  As  w  ell  this  night  as  another !  "  he  cried,  starting  up 
and  looking  her  in  the  face  with  the  same  gesture  of 
hopeless  surrender.  "  I  am  yours.  Do  with  me  that 
which  you  would." 

Yvette's  eyes  did  not  leave  his  face  for  a  moment. 
The  iron  was  hot,  but  she  knew  from  experience  that  she 
must  strike  delicately.  It  was  not  a  time  for  the  black- 
smith's anvil  and  the  clang  of  the  forehammer.  Daintily 
as  a  goldsmith  fines  out  his  filigree,  she  set  herself  to 
her  task. 

"  Not  so,"  she  whispered,  meekly,  "  believe  me,  I  am 
as  grieved  for  this  poor  folk  as  ever  you  can  be.  Is  not 
my  father  also  one  of  them,  a  leader  and  a  chief?  Would 
I  do  aught  to  hurt  either  him  or  them?  Is  not  my  life, 
my  all,  wrapped  up  in  this  place,  dependent  upon  the 
goodwill  of  these  poor  honest  neighbors?  It  is  because 
I  know  so  much,  see  so  clearly — that  I  am  working  for 
the  preservation  of  these  ignorant  villagers — why  else 
should  I  take  the  trouble  ?  It  is  no  light  matter  to  risk 
misconstruction  from  one's  best  friends,  from  those  for 
whom  one  has  given  up  all !  " 

And  at  this  point,  by  what  means  soever  Yvette  Foy 
achieved  the  marvel — whether  by  touching  the  back  of 
her  throat  with  her  tongue,  as  the  manner  of  some  is, 
or  in  some  other  fashion — certain  it  is  that  two  great 
burning  drops  fell  on  the  back  of  the  young  man's  hand. 
And  when  he  looked  suddenly  up,  lo !  the  tears  were 
running  freely  down  the  cheeks  of  that  innocent  and 
simple  maiden.  Mistress  Yvette  Foy. 


VAE    VICTIS!  247 

Jean  Cavalier  sprang  to  his  feet.  He  clasped  the  girl 
in  his  arms.  "  I  will  come,"  he  said.  "  You  shall  not 
weep — not  for  me — I  am  not  worthy  of  it.  And  I  see 
that  you  do  love  me !     Tell  me  that  you  do !  " 

"  To-night,  then  ?  "  she  sobbed,  ignoring  his  appeal. 

"  Yes — to-night — if  you  will,"  he  answered.  "  What 
thou  doest,  do  quickly,"  he  added. 

All  unconsciously  he  had  used  the  words  of  Another 
— of  One  who  also  was  betrayed  with  a  kiss. 

"  To-night,  then,"  she  said,  touching  his  short  crisp 
curls  softly  with  her  lips  and  smiling  through  her  tears, 
"  at  the  Ferry-house  of  Beaucaire  upon  the  Tarn.  I 
will  guide  you  there.     We  shall  go  hand  in  hand !  " 


XXIX 

THE    FERRY    OF   BEAUCAIRE 

THE  night  came,  as  usual,  with  the  swift  ebbing 
of  the  day.  But  it  was  midwinter,  and  even  in 
the  Midi  the  twilight  began  soon  after  mid- 
afternoon,  down  there  by  the  smoothly-flowing  Tarn. 
There  was  little  snow  on  the  fields— a  sprinkling  merely, 
from  which  the  vine-stocks  stood  out,  recalling  the 
blackened  hands  of  martyrs  burned  at  the  stake  and 
afterward  buried  to  the  wrists.  Vainly  they  seemed  to 
cry  from  the  ground  against  the  fury  of  religious  hate 
which  was  going  on  all  about  them. 

Far  and  near  the  river  was  cumbered  with  floating 
cakes  of  ice,  detached  from  the  pools  higher  up.  There 
came  from  the  gorges  a  faint  ripping  sound  like  a  dress- 
maker tearing  cloth.  It  was  the  ice-cakes  grinding  one 
against  the  other. 

Yet  there  was  obviously  something  important  afoot 
in  the  vicinity  of  the  Ferry  of  Beaucaire.  A  smell  of 
hot  metal  declared  to  the  nostril  that  there  were  dark 
lanterns  about.  A  horse  neighed  in  the  middle  distance 
and  was  answered  from  behind  a  wood.  Once  a  light 
showed  for  a  moment  from  the  Millau  side,  and  was 
incontinently  extinguished  as  if  a  foot  had  been  set  upon 
a  candle.  All  about  the  air  was  full  of  the  indescribable 
stir  and  uneasiness  inseparable  from  human  presences 
near  at  hand  but  unseen. 

So  much  for  the  side  of  the  river  nearest  to  the  quar- 
ters of  the  commander-in-chief  of  the  King  of  France, 
the  Marquis  de  Montrevel.  The  side  of  the  Tarn  toward 
the  Causse  of  Larzac  lay  in  deepest  gloom.     Frowning 

248 


THE  FERRY  OF  BEAUCAIRE     249 

rocks  overshadowed  the  pools,  and  even  the  white  foam 
of  the  shallower  rapids  could  not  show  the  faintest  haze 
of  gray  through  the  dense  inky  black.  It  seemed  im- 
possible for  any  living  thing  to  descend  those  frowning 
precipices.  Even  in  broad  daylight  the  task  appeared 
more  suited  to  goats  than  to  men.  In  the  moonless 
night  the  attempt  seemed  mad  and  impossible. 

Yet  for  more  than  an  hour  two  people  had  been  follow- 
ing the  dog's  trail  which  led  zig-zag  down  the  bald  preci- 
pices of  the  Causse  where  they  overhang  the  river.  The 
stars  above  them  grew  sparser  and  more  rainbow-like 
in  their  sparkling  as  the  adventurers  dipped  lower  into 
the  valley  haze. 

But  the  two  minded  nothing  but  themselves — neither 
in  the  heavens  above  nor  in  the  earth  beneath — as,  in- 
deed, is  the  way  of  such.  They  had  heard  behind  them 
as  they  fled  from  La  Cavalerie  the  sound  of  the  chaunted 
evening  psalm,  telling  of  peace  and  mercy  and  the  stern 
joys  of  righteousness.  To  Yvette  Foy  it  w^as  no  more 
than  the  crying  of  the  whooper  swans  high  overhead 
in  the  windless  November  dusk,  or  the  winter  wolves 
howling  across  the  wilderness  in  the  gray  dawnings. 
But  to  the  ear  of  Jean  Cavalier  every  note  came  sharp- 
toothed  with  remorse.  Each  line  was  hallowed  by  the 
associations  of  bygone  communions,  of  gales  of  the 
Spirit  sweeping  over  the  congregation  of  the  Lord's  folk. 
Every  well-remembered  word  edged  itself  and  cut  sharp 
to  the  dividing  asunder  of  soul  and  marrow.  Each 
pause  for  prayer  brought  back  the  faces  of  his  brethren 
— the  gloomy  Temple,  the  bowed  heads,  the  eyes  veiled 
and  dim,  the  sweet  infinitely  gracious  hush  that  follows 
the  act  of  the  breaking  of  bread. 

And  clearer  than  all  Cavalier  saw  the  empty  place 
where  he  should  have  stood — the  little  red  Bible  he  had 
brought  from  Geneva,  with  a  hundred  places  marked 
here  and  there,  yellowed  at  the  bottom  of  every  page 
by  the  thumb-grip.  He  had  never  thought  to  part  with 
that.     It  was  to  have  accompanied  him  to  the  coffin,  so 


250        FLOWER-O'-THE-CORN 

that  (in  That  Day)  he  might,  as  it  were,  readily  find  the 
place  and  stand  with  the  Charter  of  Salvation  patent  in 
his  hand. 

Ah,  it  was  over.  Standing  high  as  heaven,  he  had 
fallen  lower  than  the  lowest  pit.  For  others  there  might 
be  hope.  For  him  none.  He  had  saved  others.  They 
told  him  so  day  by  day  in  the  open  consistory  of  the 
saints — how  this  one  and  that  laid  his  turning  to  God 
to  the  account  of  Jean  Cavalier. 

Well,  at  least  all  would  be  over  now,  once  and  for  ever. 
He  was  about  to  betray  the  folk  who  had  stood  by  him. 
He  was  about  to  deliver  them  into  the  hands  of  the 
bloody  persecutors.  His  name,  that  had  been  written 
among  the  stars,  would  now  be  hurled  in  the  dust. 

The  Camisard  shepherd,  as  he  wrapped  his  plaid  about 
him  on  the  Causse,  watching  the  sheep  by  night,  would 
spit  at  the  name  of  Jean  Cavalier.  The  martyr  in  the 
red  robe  of  flames  or  looking  into  the  musket's  mouth, 
would  lift  up  a  hand  and  testify  against  him.  Mothers 
in  the  Huguenot  Israel  would  speak  of  him  to  their 
children  as  the  great  and  awful  Warning,  the  Achan  of 
Cursing  in  the  camp  of  the  faithful. 

Jean  Cavalier  felt  all  this  as  he  went  further  from  the 
low  easily-destructible  walls  which  for  his  sake  the  hands 
of  his  faithful  hillmen  had  built.  He  overpassed  the 
ordered  lines  of  trenches,  now  half-filled  with  snow,  and 
left  behind  him  the  sound  of  that  slow  and  sorrowful 
chanting.  Once  he  put  his  hands  to  his  ears  to  shut  out 
that  call.  But  it  came  clearer  than  ever,  sharp  as  re- 
proach. They  seemed  to  be  singing  over  an  open  grave 
— the  entombment  of  all  that  was  noble  and  worthy  in 
Jean  Cavalier.  Yet  he  went  on.  For  him  the  die  was 
cast.  It  was  too  late.  All  was  finished.  There  was  no 
oil  any  more  in  his  lamp.  He  had  spilled  it  upon  the 
highway — for  him  now  no  future  life — no  God — no  hope 
— only  a  blackness  of  darkness  for  ever,  and  the  good 
angel  of  Jean  Cavalier  tearfully  veiling  his  face  with  his 
wings.     He  was  doomed  to  go  to  his  own  place,  with 


THE  FERRY  OF  BEAUCAIRE     251 

Judas  and  Cain  as  the  three  types  of  all  the  traitorous 
evil  of  the  world. 

He  drew  a  long  sigh — at  least  (if  among  the  powers 
of  evil  there  be  any  kindly  demons)  he  had  not  sold 
himself  for  naught. 

Was  there  not  at  least  a  soft  hand  in  his  ?  He  could 
see  against  the  snow  the  outline  of  a  woman's  form. 
He  knew,  even  under  the  fur-lined  cloak,  that  it  was 
beautiful.  Once  when  she  turned  to  guide  him,  he  could 
see  the  stars  shine  in  her  eyes,  which  otherwise  (he  knew) 
were  black  as  the  night  upon  the  pools  of  the  Tarn. 

Somewhere  below  there  lay  the  Ferry-house  of  Beau- 
caire.  What  awaited  him  down  in  that  gulf  of  black- 
ness? At  that  moment  Yvette  nestled  closer  to  him. 
He  felt  the  warmth  grow  and  tingle  about  his  heart. 
Many  things  began  to  dissolve — to  alter  and  change. 
Remorse  and  reproach  no  longer  troubled  him.  He 
heard  no  more  the  sound  of  the  solemn  singing.  The 
dirge-like  music  ceased.  The  empty  grave? — Well,  for 
everyone  on  the  face  of  the  world  there  awaited  a  grave  ! 
His,  surely,  could  not  be  more  terrible  or  more  disgrace- 
ful than  the  rest.  Death  closed  all.  He  held  by  that. 
What  was  it  that  the  Scripture  said?  The  words  of  the 
Preacher — the  man  who  understood  both  wisdom  and 
folly — the  way  of  men  with  men  and  the  way  of  men  with 
a  maid?  Like  him  Jean  Cavalier  said  in  his  heart,  "  As 
it  happeneth  to  the  fool  so  also  it  happeneth  to  the  wise 
man !  This  also  is  vanity.  For  how  dieth  the  wise 
man  ? — As  the  fool  dieth  !  " 

The  lights  of  La  Cavalerie  he  had  left  far  behind  him 
— the  little  defenced  houses  of  the  Camisards — honest 
seekers  after  truth,  each  one  of  whom  would  gladly  have 
laid  down  his  life  for  him — the  broader  splashes  shed 
from  the  Temple,  through  the  open  doors  of  which  the 
songs  of  Zion  pealed  across  the  snow — the  stark  empti- 
ness and  blank  window  squares  of  the  gate-house  oppo- 
site to  his  own  dwelling,  where  had  dwelt  the  fair  young 
Englishwoman  and  her  father,  to  whom  for  a  time  he 


252        FLOWER-O'-THE-CORN 

had  been  as  a  son — all  these  he  remembered  no  more. 
They  passed  utterly  from  him.  They  were  wiped  out 
by  the  mere  proximity  of  the  woman  whose  heart  was 
snares  and  nets,  and  whose  hands  were  as  bands  of  steel. 

They  went  down  hand  in  hand.  In  the  stillness  of 
the  night  Jean  Cavalier  could  hear  plainly  the  beating 
of  the  girl's  heart,  and  once  as  they  stood  panting  on  a 
ledge  her  breath  came  up  to  him  sweet  as  the  scent  of 
dew-wet  wallflower  on  a  morn  in  May. 

So  the  man  went  on,  following  his  fate  straightway, 
as  an  ox  going  to  the  slaughter  or  a  fool  to  the  correc- 
tion of  the  stocks. 

It  was  strange  with  what  sureness  of  instinct  the  girl 
found  her  way.  Where  Cavalier,  indurated  and  accus- 
tomed to  night  surprises  as  he  was,  could  see  one  yard, 
she  could  see  ten. 

Not  once  did  she  fall  or  hesitate.  Down,  down  they 
went,  clinging  desperately  to  stray  tree  stems  or  fol- 
lowing mere  threads  of  track  which  the  very  mountain 
sheep  would  shy  at  and  go  far  about  to  seek  easier  paths. 

The  stars  grew  fewer  above  them.  The  deep  gorge  of 
the  Tarn  shut  them  in.  The  stone  dislodged  by  the 
iron-shod  heel  of  Jean  Cavalier  (never  by  that  of  his 
companion,  who  moved  silently  as  a  shadow)  sprang  at 
once  into  a  long  silence  which  was  broken  only  by  the 
sudden  plunge  far  below,  as  it  struck  the  sleeping  pool, 
or  met  with  a  metallic  "  tang  "  one  of  the  thin  cakes  of 
floating  ice  that  blocked  all  but  the  swiftest  parts  of  the 
current. 

Thus  it  was  that  Yvette  Foy  did  her  master's  work 
— faithfully  and  well — one  thought  for  him  and  two  for 
herself,  and  as  for  Jean  Cavalier — bah !  he  did  not  count 
at  all. 

They  came  to  the  Ferry  by  which  men  pass  over,  not 
to  the  perilous  heights  of  the  great  Causses  down  which 
these  two  had  adventured,  but  up  the  valley  of  the 
Dourbie  to  the  green  crofts  of  Nant  and  the  fat  lands 
of  St.  Jean. 


THE  FERRY  OF  BEAUCAIRE     253 

Almost  Yvette  had  her  victim  between  the  thills — 
almost,  but  not  quite.  Still,  he  might  have  fled — there 
was  yet  time.  But  he  himself  had  spoken  a  true  word. 
God  had  departed  from  him.  The  door  was  shut  and 
there  was  none  to  open. 


All  was  dark  across  the  water  as  they  stood  on  the 
crisp  grass  of  the  river  margin,  hand  in  hand.  It  was 
milder  down  there.  The  wind  was  still  and  edgeless 
after  the  icy  Causse.  But  Cavalier,  listening  intently, 
could  hear  the  little  thin  floes  adrift  on  the  river  ripping 
and  rustling  like  rats  among  the  sheaves  in  a  barn. 

Then  mellow  and  large  and  full  the  voice  of  Yvette 
Foy  passed  across  to  the  further  shore.  "  Vive  le  Roi — 
le  Roi — le  Roi! "  she  cried  over  and  over  again  in  the 
modulated  tones  of  one  who  sends  a  summons  to  the 
kine-herd  to  turn  homeward  toward  the  milking  bars. 

"  Le  Roi — le  Roi!  "  came  back  the  scarce-diminished 
echo,  so  clear  and  loud,  that  Cavalier  himself  started. 
He  thought  someone  had  answered.  But  for  a  long 
minute  there  was  no  sound.  And  then  he  could  hear 
the  dip  of  oars  which  grew  nearer  and  more  imminent 
across  the  black  flood. 

"  Ice,"  he  could  hear  a  voice  say,  "  quick  with  your 
boat-hook !     Push  off  there,  I  tell  you !  " 

Shrouded  forms,  the  prow  of  a  boat  from  which 
streamed  away  a  swirl  of  phosphorescent  light,  the  grind 
of  an  iron-shod  keel  on  a  sand-bank,  the  flash  of  an  oar 
feathering,  the  fending  screech  of  a  metal  prong  on 
the  rock,  and  lo !  the  boat  they  had  come  to  find  was 
waiting  for  them. 

"My  lady!" 

"  Marquis!  " 

"  He  is  here — ready  to  do  the  King's  bidding!  " 

So  without  a  word  Jean  Cavalier  stepped  among  the 
servants  of  the  King  of  France,  and  lost  his  claim  to  be 
numbered  among  the  servants  of  the  Other  Kingdom. 


254        FLOWER-O'-THE-CORN 

The  boat  pushed  off.  The  hills  which  sheltered  the 
Camisard  legends  retreated.  The  stars  looked  out. 
Lanterns  began  to  gleam  on  the  shore  to  which  they 
were  going.  After  the  first  words  of  greeting  no  one  had 
spoken.  The  oars  plashed  in  the  dark  water.  Some- 
times they  scraped  and  rasped  on  the  floating  ice.  Then 
in  a  moment  he  realized  that  having  done  her  work, 
Yvette  was  no  longer  by  his  side  1  Jean  Cavalier  was 
facing  his  fate  without  God  and  without  hope  in  the 
world !  Also  without  the  woman  who  had  brought  him 
thither ! 


XXX 

APPLES    OF   SODOM 

NICHOLAS  DE  BAUME,  Marquis  de  Montrevel, 
was  little  given  to  respect  of  persons.  As  a 
consequence  he  had  never  risen  very  high  in 
the  armies  or  councils  of  Louis  le  Grand.  Yet  it  was  lit- 
tle de  Montrevel  cared.  But  he  understood  very  well  the 
merits  of  a  good  horse,  a  pretty  woman,  or  a  brave  man. 
To  these  he  was  prepared  to  do  homage,  after  their  kind, 
wherever  found. 

So  the  "  Baker's  Apprentice "  was  received  with  as 
high  honors  as  though  he,  too,  had  been  a  new-made 
Marshal  of  France  and  a  leader  of  the  King's  armies. 

Montrevel  knew  very  well  the  palace  plots  that  were 
hatching  against  himself,  and  that  he  would  not  long  re- 
main Generalissimo  of  the  King's  forces  in  the  Cevennes. 
But  since  he  had  all  the  fortune  he  needed,  as  much  glory 
as  would  serve  him,  and  for  a  companion  the  woman  who, 
with  all  her  faults,  her  follies  and  her  sins,  still  suited  him 
the  best,  he  was  disposed  to  be  content. 

"  I  had  as  lief  marry  an  ewe-lamb  with  a  garland  round 
its  innocent  neck  as  a  girl  from  a  convent,"  he  said.  "  I 
am  an  old  fellow.  I  have  served  many  apprenticeships, 
seen  many  campaigns,  broken  down  many  fortress  walls, 
and  now  I  prefer  my  salad  well  dowsed  with  pepper, 
spice,  and  vinegar,  rather  than  drenched  in  oil!  " 

When  the  boat  reached  the  other  side  of  the  Tarn, 
Cavalier  could  see  dimly  the  forms  of  grenadiers  in  their 
tall  peaked  caps  drawn  on  either  side.  In  the  darkness 
he  could  hear  the  unanimous  rustle  of  ordered  movement 

255 


256        FLOWER-O'-THE-CORN 

as  the  arms  rose  to  the  salute,  and  fell  again  to  the  men's 
sides. 

Near  by  there  was  a  grove  of  dark  trees — pines  by  the 
sound  of  the  wind  among  their  branches.  For  five  min- 
utes Cavalier  threaded  aisle  after  sombre  aisle  of  these. 
They  descended  into  a  dell,  as  it  had  been  an  ancient 
limestone  quarry.  Here,  blazing  with  light,  a  tent  was 
pitched.     Others  less  bright  and  gay  stood  around. 

The  Marquis  de  Montrevel  led  the  way,  and  what  was 
the  young  man's  wonderment  to  see  that  on  the  Marshal's 
arm  there  hung,  looking  tenderly  up  into  his  weather- 
beaten  face — who  but  Yvette  Foy,  daughter  of  the  Cami- 
sard  innkeeper  of  La  Cavalerie! 

The  table  was  spread  for  supper  as  they  entered.  Ser- 
vants, attired  like  the  foresters  of  a  great  nobleman  and 
mighty  hunter,  stood  in  ordered  rows.  The  grenadiers 
of  the  guard  halted  at  the  tent-door.  Officers  in  splendid 
uniforms  rose  to  greet  their  commander-in-chief.  That 
sturdy  veteran  conducted  Yvette  with  grave  courtesy  to 
the  head  of  the  table.  As  he  stood  for  a  moment,  waiting 
till  a  Httle  bustle  subsided  at  the  end  of  the  tent  nearest 
to  the  door,  he  glanced  down  at  his  companion  with  pride, 
and  yet  with  an  appreciation  of  the  situation  more  than 
half-humorous. 

There  was  a  proud  smile  of  triumph  on  her  beautiful 
dark  face.  And  it  was  poor  Jean  Cavalier's  thought,  the 
rat  of  a  useless  remorse  gnawing  meantime  at  his  vitals, 
that  never  woman  looked  so  beautiful. 

The  Marshal  raised  his  hand  and  commanded  silence 
with  a  gesture  at  once  large  and  gracious. 

Then  he  took  Yvette  Foy  by  the  hand,  holding  the 
fingers  a  little  high  in  his,  not  without  a  certain  pride. 

*'  Gentlemen  of  the  King's  army  and  my  good  com- 
rades," he  said,  "  I  present  to  you  my  wife,  Madame  the 
Marquise  de  Montrevel." 

Whereupon  he  sat  down  and  ordered  in  the  soup. 

Yvette  was  seated  on  his  right  hand,  and  Cavalier,  all 
overwhelmed  and  a  little  dazed  by  the  lights  and  the  flood 


APPLES    OF    SODOM  257 

of  emotions,  found  himself  on  his  left.  Hs  stood  aston- 
ished, almost  in  act  to  flee,  till  the  servant  detailed  to  wait 
upon  him,  seeing  his  difficulty,  laid  a  hand  on  his  shoul- 
der and  seated  him  on  his  chair  with  a  gentle  compulsion. 

A  flood  of  indignant  wonder  rose  slowly  within  him. 
Verily  he  had  sold  himself  for  naught — for  the  light  word 
of  a  woman  without  honor.  The  flattering  eye,  the  caress- 
ing hand,  the  pouting  lips — there  she  was  trying  them  on 
another.  They  could  be  never  more  for  him!  What  a 
fool  he  had  been! 

The  repast  went  on.  Cavalier,  who  in  Geneva  had  seen 
nothing  but  the  simplest  and  severest  of  repasts,  and  in 
La  Cavalerie  had  dwelt  in  a  gate-house  alone,  was  con- 
founded by  the  sparkling  of  glass  and  silver,  the  tinkling 
of  wine-pitchers  against  Venetian  goblets,  the  purple 
foaming  of  Burgundy  poured  into  shining  tankards,  the 
crowd  of  gay  uniform^s,  the  constant  coming  and  going 
of  servants  and  messengers  in  gay  liveries.  Even  the  de- 
tail of  the  table  manners  was  strange  to  him,  and  he  ate 
what  was  on  his  plate  mechanically,  or  more  often  left  it 
wholly  untouched. 

The  Marechal,  an  old  campaigner  and  man  of  the 
world,  perhaps  divining  some  part  of  the  young  man's 
feelings,  left  him  pretty  much  to  himself,  only  pledging 
him  once  or  twice,  for  form's  sake,  under  the  designation 
of  "  Mon  Cousin." 

Yvette  never  so  much  as  glanced  at  him.  The  building 
was  raised  now.  The  scaffolding  might  come  down  when 
it  liked.  She  sat  in  that  great  military  mess  tent,  with 
the  high  officers  of  the  King's  Household  troops  about 
her,  eager  yet  cool,  ready  with  her  smiles  and  her  banter, 
equal — and  more  than  equal — to  that  occasion  or  any 
other.  And  her  husband  watched  her  with  not  a  little 
pride. 

To  his  chosen  confidant,  Stephen  Leroux,  paymaster 
of  the  troops  in  the  High  Cevennes,  who  came  and  leaned 
over  his  chair,  he  whispered,  in  an  expansion  of  confi- 
dence, while  Yvette  was  engaging  half-a-dozen  in  talk  at 


258        FLOWER-O'-THE-CORN 

once,  "  What  a  wife  for  an  old  campaigner  like  me !  Eh, 
Leroux?  No  dull  dumps  in  our  house!  I  might  have 
married,  had  I  been  a  fool,  a  chit  from  the  seminary,  with 
a  rabbit  face  and  the  manners  of  a  frightened  governess. 
But  see  the  little  one  holding  her  own.  Did  you  ever  hear 
anything  like  it?  " 

Leroux  looked  down  at  his  general  along  the  side  of 
his  nose,  with  a  faintly  quizzical  expression,  but  nodded 
his  head  in  smiling  agreement.  He  wondered  if  the  Mar- 
shal would  like  this  badinage  of  Yvette's  quite  so  much  in 
a  few  years.  To  him  it  did  not  seem  quite — housewifely, 
he  would  have  said. 

But  after  all  it  was  not  his  business,  but  that  of  the  Mar- 
quis's heirs;  and  wiser  men  and  better  soldiers  than 
Nicholas  de  Baume  had  made  fools  of  themselves  about 
just  such  a  woman.  The  dinner  drew  to  a  close  with  the 
clearing  of  all  the  fragments  down  to  the  farther  end  of 
the  table,  where  the  soldier-servants  and  officers  of  the 
Marshal's  household  proceeded  forthwith  to  regale  them- 
selves, as  was  the  jovial  custom  of  the  Commander-in- 
Chief  of  the  Cevennes,  while  those  at  the  upper  end  drew 
more  closely  together,  and  drank  in  great  bumpers  to  the 
health  of  the  King,  to  that  of  the  general,  and  to  "  All  the 
glories  of  France." 

It  was  naturally  a  somewhat  strange  experience  for 
Jean  Cavalier  to  find  himself  on  his  legs  drinking  to  the 
good  fortune  of  the  King  against  whom  he  had  so  long 
stood  successfully  in  arms.  However,  he  had  not  long 
time  to  think  about  it,  for  de  Montrevel  touched  him  on 
the  shoulder  immediately  after,  and  said,  "  Now,  sir,  if 
you  are  ready,  we  will  proceed  to  finish  our  affair." 

Then  he  turned  to  the  company  with  his  usual  courtesy. 

"  You  will  excuse  me,"  he  said,  ''  I  have  some  matters 
to  arrange  with  this,  my  young  kinsman,  who  has  been 
good  enough  to  escort  my  wife  to  our  camp!  " 

Whereupon  the  company,  both  soldiers  and  servants, 
rose,  and  with  a  mighty  unanimous  clatter  of  swords, 
whose  blades  met  in  an  arch  over  the  table,  and  glasses 


APPLES    OF    SODOM  259 

that  clinked  in  the  other  hand,  they  drank  to  the  health 
of  the  Marshal  and  his  lady. 

A  signal  to  the  guard  followed.  They  fell  in  before 
and  behind,  silent  and  precise.  The  Marquis  de  Mont- 
revel  gave  his  arm  to  his  wife.  Jean  Cavalier  followed  be- 
hind, his  head  bowed,  and  his  soul  within  him  mere  sack- 
cloth and  ashes. 

They  mounted  out  of  the  quarry,  but  had  not  far  to 
go  through  the  pinewood  before  they  came  to  the  head- 
quarters of  the  general.  It  was  a  white  house  in  a  vine- 
yard, with  tall  winter-stripped  trees  like  sentinels  before 
the  door.  Jean  Cavalier  felt  on  every  side  of  him  the  or- 
dered rhythm  and  movement  of  regular  troops — the  foot 
swung  to  a  second,  the  bayonet  entered  or  shifted  in  just 
so  many  movements.  Guards  lined  the  approaches, 
standing  near  enough  for  him  to  see,  even  in  the  dim 
light,  the  round  spots  of  light  made  by  their  buttons,  and 
the  whiter  splotches  of  their  buckle  gaiters. 

"  And  now.  General  Cavalier,"  said  the  Marshal  after 
he  had  motioned  the  young  man  to  a  chair,  "  what  have 
you  to  say  to  me?  " 

Jean  Cavalier  was  a  young  man  and  a  brave  man.  He 
had,  it  is  true,  been  led  away  by  a  temptation  which  older 
and  more  experienced  men  might  have  escaped.  At  all 
events  they  would  certainly  have  sold  themselves  for  a 
higher  price  in  a  better  market.  But  whatever  had  been 
the  bitterness  of  his  disappointment,  he  was  very  far 
from  revenging  it  upon  the  woman. 

"  Sir,"  he  answered,  looking  straight  into  the  eyes  of 
the  sturdy  old  soldier  of  King  Louis,  "  it  is  for  you  to 
speak  to  me.  This  lady  at  your  right  hand  has  informed 
me  that  it  was  your  wish  to  see  me.     I  am  here." 

'*  I  am  given  to  understand,"  said  the  Marshal,  "  that 
you  wish  to  put  an  end  to  the  war  by  surrendering  to  the 
clemency  of  the  King!  " 

"  Not  to  his  clemency,  but  to  his  justice!  "  said  Cavalier, 
boldly. 

The  old  soldier  shrugged  his  shoulders. 


26o         FLOWER-O'-THE-CORN 

"  I  presume,"  he  said,  "  that  you  did  not  come  here  to 
dispute  with  me  about  words.  You  desire  to  end  this  war. 
So,  I  may  adm.it,  do  I.  You,  on  your  side,  cannot  finish 
it  by  hacking  to  pieces  a  priest  or  two  taken  at  random 
among  the  villages.  Neither  can  we  make  of  the  Cevenols 
good  subjects  of  the  King  by  the  rough  dragooning  of 
the  Cadets  of  the  Cross.    The  question  is, '  What  then?  '  " 

"  This  lady  has  informed  me,"  Cavalier  adhered  to  the 
formula,  finding  a  certain  satisfaction  in  it,  "  that  in  re- 
turn for  a  cessation  of  the  war  in  the  countries  of  the 
Cevennes,  the  King  would  grant  freedom  of  faith  and 
worship,  and  permit  his  Protestant  subjects  to  serve  in 
the  foreign  wars,  where  we  could  best  prove  our  devotion 
to  his  person." 

The  Marshal  pinched  Yvette's  ear  as  she  sat  beside 
him,  fingering  a  piece  of  lace  which  fell  from  the  wide 
embroidered  collar  which  she  wore — every  stitch  of  it 
her  own  work,  for  indeed  she  was  no  sluggard. 

"  I  fear,"  he  said,  "  that  this  pretty  one  hath  somewhat 
exceeded  her  instructions.  Even  I  cannot  promise  you 
so  much.  Others  might  have  no  scruple.  But  not  Nicho- 
las de  Baume.  I  will  promise  you  no  terms  which  I  do 
not  believe  that  I  can  persuade  the  King  to  agree  to.  It 
is  true  that  his  Majesty  is  tired  of  this  petty  war,  which, 
without  consuming  many  men  or  being  of  international 
importance,  yet  locks  up  useful  regiments  and  (here  he 
coughed),  if  I  may  say  so,  some  of  the  best  officers  his 
Majesty  possesses  as  well !  " 

Cavalier  did  not  answer,  waiting  for  the  Marquis  to 
continue. 

"  But  I  can  promise  you,"  he  said,  after  a  pause,  "  that 
the  King  will  accept  your  service,  that  he  will  make  you 
commander  of  all  the  troops  you  are  able  to  raise  for 
service  abroad.  He  will  also  remove  the  officers  who  had 
been  signally  unsuccessful  in  restoring  order  in  the  Ce- 
vennes, and  he  will  grant  your  friends  freedom  of  opinion 
in  matters  religious!  " 

"What   does   that  mean?"   said   Cavalier,  brusquely. 


APPLES    OF    SODOM  261 

"  Can  we  worship  according  to  our  consciences  the  God 
of  our  fathers?  " 

The  Marquis  de  Montrevel  made  a  slight  motion  of  im- 
patience. 

"  As  to  that,"  he  said,  "  it  depends  on  what  you  mean. 
His  Majesty  is,  as  you  know,  of  the  rehgion  CathoHc.  So 
am  I.  So  is  my  wife.  (He  bowed.)  So  are  all  officers 
and  true  servants  of  the  King.  So  is  Madame  de  Main- 
tenon." 

He  smiled  somewhat  more  broadly. 

"  Especially  Madame,"  he  said  again,  with  a  smack  of 
his  lips  as  if  relishing  the  flavor  of  wine. 

"  Now  it  is  not  to  be  supposed,"  he  went  on,  "  that  the 
King  and  Sergeant  Pouzin  on  guard  outside  there,  chief 
treasurer  Leroux  and  the  Maire  of  the  village,  my  wife 
and  Madame  at  Versailles,  all  agree  in  their  hearts  as  to 
the  nature  of  the  Deity,  or  concerning  the  proper  use  of 
incense,  or  the  rights  and  wrongs  of  the  Port  Royal 
Catechism  (which,  by  the  way,  few  of  us  have  ever  read). 
Nevertheless,  we  are  all  Catholics — good  Catholics — that 
is  to  say,  of  the  King's  religion — without  fear  and  without 
reproach.  My  relative,  the  late  M.  de  Montaigne,  hath 
said  something  to  a  kindred  effect,  but  in  fitter  words 
than  I. 

"  Now  it  is  not  to  be  imagined  for  a  moment  that  the 
most  royal  son  of  St.  Louis  is  not  better  informed  con- 
cerning these  great  matters  (especially  considering  that 
he  hath  the  valued  assistance  of  Madame  de  Maintenon, 
widow  of  M.  Scarron  of  happy  memory)  than  a  parcel — 
pardon  the  word — of  Genevan  pastors  and  Cevenol  herds- 
men, who  have  only  charged  their  own  consciences  with 
the  solution  of  the  problem?    You  follow  me?  " 

Cavalier  bowed  his  head  without  answering.  The  Gen- 
eral's Gallio  phrases  grated  on  him  worse  than  the  oaths 
and  revilings  of  the  partisan.  He  was  too  simple  to  un- 
derstand irony. 

"  So,"  continued  the  Marquis,  more  gravely,  "  it 
amounts  to  this,  that  I  can  promise  you  liberty  of  con- 


262        FLOWER-O'-THE-CORN 

science,  but  not  liberty  of  proclaiming  that  conscience. 
You  will  then  have  as  much  freedom  as  I — I  am  not  al- 
ways able  to  declare  my  own  beliefs.  It  is  a  good  maxim 
— take  it  from  a  man  well-nigh  thrice  your  age — '  Tell 
only  half  the  truth  to  a  woman,  the  hundredth  part 
thereof  to  a  king!  " 

"  If  the  Cevennes  are  pacified,"  said  Cavalier,  his 
downrightness  cutting  the  sophistry  as  a  knife  cuts  butter, 
"  will  the  chapels  and  temples  be  put  down?  Will  the 
persecuting  priests  and  vicars  return?  Shall  we  of  the 
faith  be  dragooned  into  attending  a  worship  that  we  de- 
test, upon  the  pain  of  death  or  exile?" 

"  I  promise  you  that  you  shall  be  able  to  worship  your 
God  in  your  own  way,  so  long  as  no  display  is  made.  You 
shall  have  your  pastors,  who  shall  dwell  among  you  and 
break  bread  with  you.  More  I  cannot  promise,  as  an 
honest  man  and  a  servant  of  the  King!  " 

"And  if  we  do  not?"  said  Cavalier,  rising  to  his  feet. 

"  Ah,"  said  the  Marshal,  his  face  falling,  "  I  trust  it 
will  not  come  to  that.  My  reign  here  is  nearly  over.  If 
the  matter  is  not  finished  now,  the  wind  that  is  already 
sown  shall  be  reaped  as  the  whirlwind  among  these 
mountains  before  many  months  are  over.  I  have  fought 
you  fairly;  no  man  of  you  can  say  other  than  that!  But 
the  man  who  comes  after  me  will  burn  your  homes  with 
fire,  sow  your  hearthstones  with  salt,  and  leave  the  High 
Cevennes  bare  as  the  palm  of  my  hand,  without  inhabi- 
tant, as  a  land  whereto  never  man  came  !  " 

During  this  speech  Yvette  for  the  first  time  raised  her 
eyes,  not  to  the  face  of  Cavalier,  but  to  that  of  her  hus- 
band. She  moved  her  head  aside  very  slightly,  as  if 
making  a  signal  agreed  upon.  The  Marquis  nodded, 
touched  a  bell  at  his  side,  and  an  officer  instantly  ap- 
peared. 

"  I  have  a  letter  to  write,  very  urgent,"  he  said;  "  I 
pray  you  bear  my  wife  company  till  my  return.  Pardon 
the  discourtesy.     I  shall  not  keep  you  long  waiting." 


XXXI 

JEAN    CAVALIER'S    LAST   TEMPTATION 

WITH  a  bow  and  a  smile  he  went  out,  and  Jean 
Cavalier  was  left  once  more  alone  with 
Yvette  Foy.  The  girl  regarded  him  long 
and  steadily  from  under  her  lashes.  Had  the  sceptre  in- 
deed departed  from  her?  Was  her  power  utterly  gone? 
It  seemed  like  it,  for  the  man  never  so  much  as  glanced 
at  her.  But  those  who  have  followed  thus  far  the  career 
of  this  young  woman,  know  that  the  daughters  of  this 
world  are  wiser  in  their  generation  than  the  children  of 
light.  There  was  to  be  no  direct  attack  this  time.  A 
long  sad  silence  deepened  and  hung  brooding  over  them 
both. 

At  last,  when  she  thought  the  time  was  ripe,  Yvette 
broke  it,  speaking  in  a  voice  in  which  sadness  mingled 
with  the  compulsion  of  tragical  fate. 

"  I  do  not  ask  you  to  forgive  me,"  she  murmured, 
"  that  I  cannot  hope  for.  I  only  ask  you  to  believe  that 
if  there  has  been  any  deceit,  it  was  not  of  my  own 
choosing.  I  did  all  for  the  best.  I  was  sworn  to  silence. 
To  speak  the  whole  truth  would  have  ruined — him! " 
(She  pointed  without  to  where  in  an  ante-room  the  steady 
murmur  of  a  voice  told  that  the  Marshal  was  dictating 
his  despatch.)  "  He  made  me  promise  never  to  reveal 
our  marriage — to  keep  it  even  from  my  own  father.  For 
his  sake  I  have  done  so,  and  only  to-night  has  he  re- 
moved the  oath  from  me  by  proclaiming  the  truth  him- 
self." 

Yvette  had  risen,  and  now  stood  beside  the  young 
Camisard  leader,  the  light  of  the  lamp  shining  down  upon 

263 


264        FLOWER-O'-THE-CORN 

her  shapely  head.  He  moved  a  Httle  apart  and  withdrew 
his  sleeve  from  her  touch. 

A  quick  little  sob,  almost  inaudible,  rose  in  her  throat. 
"  I  know — I  know,"  she  said  in  a  low  voice  more  to  her- 
self than  to  him.  "  I  do  not  deserve  anything  else.  One 
is  not  free  to  love  where  one  would.  Life  is  very  hard 
for  a  woman.  Jean,  I  do  not  ask  you  to  forgive  me,  but 
be  kind  to  me — for — for  my  heart  is  broken — broken!  " 

She  breathed  the  final  word  upon  the  air  with  a  won- 
derful effect  of  tenderness.  Again  there  came  the  sob, 
again  the  tear,  not  falling  in  great  drops  this  time,  but 
softly  flowing  without  sound  or  ostentation,  as  if  the 
fountains  of  the  inner  deep  were  unsealed.  But  the  heart 
of  the  young  man  was  not  now  so  easily  moved.  Even 
your  Yvettes  can  only  do  such  things  twice  at  most — that 
is,  and  succeed. 

She  was  compelled,  therefore,  to  try  another  tack.  She 
bit  her  lip  with  anger,  and  in  her  heart  registered  a  vow 
that  Jean  Cavalier  should  pay  for  this  shame  that  he  had 
put  upon  her.  Then  she  smiled.  For  Yvette  reflected 
in  a  perfectly  Spartan  manner  that  a  disgrace  that  is  only 
witnessed  by  one,  only  known  to  one,  is  no  disgrace  at 
all.  The  only  God  she  feared  was  rumor  with  its  thou- 
sand tongues.  And  now  in  the  Marshal  she  had  a  per- 
fect defence  from  every  slanderous  foe  and  jealous  rival. 
It  was  all  finished,  that  hither-and-thither  life,  its  shifts 
and  stratagems,  its  doubtful  chances  and  wayward  ad- 
venturings.  Well,  it  had  been  far  from  uninteresting. 
She  had  ruled  people  by  ruling  the  rulers,  and  the  final 
proof  of  her  power  was  this  young  man  standing  in  the 
quarters  of  the  Marquis  de  Montrevel — in  her  own  hus- 
band's chamber,  with  the  guards  doubled  without  and 
the  whole  camp  on  the  alert  through  the  long  winter's 
night. 

Truly  if  any  woman  had  a  right  to  think  well  of  her- 
self it  was  Yvette  de  Baume,  Marquise  de  Montrevel, 
sometime  called  Yvette  Foy,  late  of  the  auberge  of  the 
Bon  Chretien  in  the  Camisard  village  of  La  Cavalerie. 


JEAN'S  LAST  TEMPTATION     265 

Like  a  flash  of  lightning  the  anger  passed  sudden- 
white  across  her  face.  "  Sir,"  she  said,  "  you  may  thank 
your  gods  that  I  brought  you  here.  You  have  come  to 
the  house  of  a  man  who  knows  how  to  deal  honestly. 
You  are  offered  such  terms  as  will  never.be  given  to  you 
again.  From  me  you  shall  have  no  more  pleading,  no 
more  humbling  of  myself.  If  you  have  anything  against 
me,  go  with  your  complaint  to  my  husband.  He  is  with- 
out there.  What  I  have  done,  I  have  done.  He  will  an- 
swer for  me!  " 

"  I  have  nothing  against  you,"  said  Jean  Cavalier  more 
gently  than  can  be  believed,  "  nothing  against  any,  save 
only  myself." 

It  may  be  set  to  the  small  credit  of  Yvette  Foy  (to  con- 
serve the  name  by  which  she  is  best  remembered)  that  at 
this  point  she  gave  vent  to  a  slight  and  genuine  sigh. 

"  I  am  sorry,"  she  murmured,  and  for  once  she  was  not 
acting  a  part  or  thinking  of  an  efifect. 

By  a  sudden  flash  of  intuition  she  seemed  to  see  the 
young  man's  career  as  it  might  have  been,  and  also  as  she 
had  made  it.  But  in  another  moment  the  impulse  had 
passed  and  Yvette  Foy  once  more  thought  only  of  her- 
self and  her  plottings.  She  controlled  herself  instantly, 
putting  so  foolish  a  thing  as  compassion  aside.  She  must 
do  her  best  to  bring  the  matter  to  a  conclusion. 

"  Forgive  me,  do  not  let  us  waste  time  about  that," 
she  said;  "agree  quickly  with  the  Marshal.  He  is  not  a 
hard  man.  You  shall  go  back  to  the  folk  of  the  moun- 
tains with  a  message  of  peace.  Between  us  you  and  I 
will  end  the  war.  There  shall  be  no  more  brother's  blood 
shed  by  brother.  I  will  pledge  myself  that  you  shall  see 
the  King  himself,  and  that  he  will  ratify  the  word  which 
my  husband  speaks." 

"  I  cannot  betray  those  who  have  trusted  in  me,"  said 
Cavalier.  "  I  will  go  back  as  I  came.  I  will  die  as  a  sol- 
dier of  the  Lord — in  the  trenches,  if  indeed  I  am  no  more 
worthy  to  lead  the  people  in  the  day  of  battle." 

"  Ah,  do  so,"  answered  the  girl,  with  a  slight  curve  of 
the  lip. 


266        FLOWER-0'-TH£-CORN 

Cavalier  strode  to  the  door  without  deigning  any  an- 
swer. He  passed  the  open  alcove  in  which  the  Marshal 
was  still  dictating  to  his  secretary.  De  Montrevel  did  not 
pause  or  look  up.  But,  as  Cavalier  opened  the  door — a 
common  countryman's  kitchen  door  opening  outward  in 
two  leaves — his  eye  caught  a  descending  flash  of  steel. 
He  found  two  bayonets  at  his  breast  and  two  more  were 
crossed  before  him  to  bar  his  way. 

He  stood  a  moment  with  the  door  in  his  hand. 

"  Go  on,"  said  a  voice  behind  him;  "  why  do  you  not 
go  as  you  said,  and  tell  the  people  of  La  Cavalerie  that 
you  have  escaped  out  of  the  mouth  of  the  lion?" 

Cavalier  turned  about  and  saw  Yvette  standing  in  the 
passage.  The  light  of  the  lamp  which  she  held  in  her 
right  hand  streamed  down  upon  her  blue-black  hair  and 
pale  beautiful  face. 

Finding  his  way  thus  barred  by  the  soldiers  of  the 
King,  the  young  man  turned,  and  going  straight  back 
into  the  chamber  where  the  conference  had  begun,  he 
waited.  Yvette,  still  smiling,  slowly  returned  and  set  the 
lamp  down  in  its  place.  Triumphant  as  she  was,  Yvette 
could  not  escape  a  certain  shiver  of  anxiety  as  she  turned 
to  face  Jean  Cavalier.  For  once  she  felt  herself  the 
weaker.  Yet  there  was  nothing  militant  or  even  reproach- 
ful about  the  aspect  of  the  young  peasant  soldier. 

He  had  rather  the  air  of  a  man  who  knows  his  own  re- 
sponsibility and  has  accepted  its  consequences.  He  stood 
by  the  fireplace,  on  which  some  logs  of  beechwood  were 
burning  with  a  slow  equable  flame.  Yvette  had  paused  at 
the  door,  as  if  even  at  that  moment  she  meditated  flight. 
So  dainty  was  her  attitude  that  she  irresistibly  recalled 
some  light  bird  poising  itself  to  take  wing.  The  Mare- 
chal  in  his  alcove  stopped  a  moment  in  his  dictation  to 
look  at  her  well  pleased. 

Yvette  stood  looking  at  Jean  Cavalier  a  moment,  as  if 
weighing  him  in  the  balances  of  her  mind.  Then  she  went 
in  and  shut  the  door  after  her. 

Cavalier  watched  her  closelv,  but  not  as  he  had  done  in 


JEAN'S  LAST  TEMPTATION     267 

the  houseplace  of  the  Bon  Chretien.  He  beckoned  her 
to  come  nearer. 

"  I  would  speak  with  you  a  moment,"  he  said.  "  I  may 
never  thus  meet  with  you  again.  You  have  gone  by  your 
choice  out  of  my  world.  1  am  a  young  man,  and  (I  tell 
you  plainly)  I  never  loved  woman  before.  I  never 
thought  to  love  any  woman — thus — till  I  saw  you.  I  had 
consecrated  myself  to  God  and  His  service.  I  had  (as  I 
thought)  brought  the  flesh  into  subjection.  I  had  vowed 
and  felt  myself  strong  to  pay — until  the  day  I  saw  you." 

He  did  not  take  his  eyes  from  the  girl's  face.  He  spoke, 
not  in  angry  denunciation,  but  with  a  certain  resigned 
sadness,  almost  sweet  in  its  intonation. 

Yvette  did  not  answer  in  words,  but  she  did  grow  a 
shade  paler  as  he  continued.  So  much  of  grace  was  left 
to  her. 

"  It  is  nothing  to  you — a  man's  love,"  he  said,  gently. 
"  I  might  have  known  that.  I  ought  to  have  known  it. 
But  that  which  was  but  the  passing  of  an  hour  to  you, 
my  lady,  was  life,  death,  and  all  the  hereafter  to  me ! 

"  We'll,  so  be  it,"  he  went  on ;  "  my  folly  I  would  not 
see ;  in  your  light-heartedness  you  would  not  tell  me. 
I  have  kissed  your  lips — there  is  no  shame  in  speaking 
of  that  to  you,  I  shall  tell  it  to  none  other." 

Yvette  smiled.  "  I  have  told  the  only  man  who  has  a 
right  to  know,"  she  said. 

The  young  man's  face  fell  a  little.  "  I  would  rather 
have  kept  that  as  a  secret  between  us  two — our  first  and 
last,"  he  said.     "  You  might  have  left  me  that! " 

She  smiled  again.  "  I  did  not  mean  my  husband," 
she  said. 

"  Who  then?  "  cried  the  young  man. 

"  My  father !  " 


"And  now,"  Jean  Cavalier  went  on,  after  a  pause, 
"  having  tasted  of  the  tree  of  the  knowledge  of  good  and 
evil  that  is  within  the  garden,  I  must  go  outside  where 


268        FLOWER-O'-THE-CORN 

the  Angel  awaits  me  with  the  flaming  sword  that  turns 
every  way.  I  go  back  to  La  Cavalerie.  I  shall  declare 
in  the  full  assembly  of  the  Brethren  of  the  Way  what  my 
advice  is.  Having  partaken  of  the  feast,  I  will  not  be 
slack  in  paying  the  reckoning.  In  a  week  you  shall  hear 
from  me.  In  a  month  I  shall  be  able  to  tell  you  what 
proportion  of  our  young  men  my  influence  can  enlist 
under  the  banner  of  the  King  of  France  to  fight  his 
battles !  " 

Yvette  Foy  went  up  to  him  and  took  his  hand.  With 
a  swift  impulsive  movement  she  lifted  it  to  her  lips. 

"  You  are  a  thousand  times  better  than  I,"  she  said. 
"  Give  God  thanks  for  your  escape  from  me." 

The  young  man  trembled  from  head  to  foot.  He 
reached  out  his  arms  toward  her,  restrained  himself  by 
a  violent  effort,  and  let  his  hands  fall  by  his  side.  Then 
he  opened  the  door  of  the  chamber  in  which  their  inter- 
view had  passed,  and  went  out  almost  blindly,  stumbling 
on  the  threshold  as  he  went. 

Yvette  followed  him  a  little  later.  Her  husband 
looked  up  quickly.     She  nodded. 

"  He  has  promised !  "  she  said,  in  a  low  voice.  De 
Montrevel  whispered  to  the  officer  in  attendance.  He 
spoke  a  quick  order  through  the  little  window  at  his 
elbow  to  a  comrade  without.  The  door  was  opened, 
and  Jean  Cavalier's  interview  was  over.  This  time  no 
bayonets  were  crossed  before  his  breast.  Muskets 
clanged  on  the  pavement  as  the  guard  turned  out. 
Swords  flashed  to  the  salute,  and  Jean  Cavalier,  the 
baker's  boy  of  Geneva,  took  his  way  unchallenged  into 
the  darkness  back  to  the  little  hill  fortress  of  La  Cava- 
lerie. This  time,  however,  he  adventured  forth  without 
companion. 


XXXII 

DAYS    THAT    COME    NOT    TWICE 

WHILE  Yvette  Foy  was  playing  her  game  for 
the  faith  and  honor  of  the  young  chief  of  the 
Camisards  within  the  intrenched  village  of 
La  Cavalerie,  on  the  opposite  heights  of  the  Causse 
Noir,  among  whose  black  rocks  perch  the  turreted 
houses  of  Saint  Veran,  the  three  other  principals  of  our 
history  continued  to  lead  a  quiet  existence. 

The  forces  of  the  King  were  indeed  all  round  them, 
but,  as  at  La  Cavalerie,  they  contented  themselves  with 
establishing  a  general  blockade. 

They  had,  indeed,  experienced  too  many  reverses  at 
the  hands  of  the  daring  peasantry  to  venture  any  more 
open  attacks  upon  their  strongholds.  In  addition  to 
this  their  generalissimo,  as  we  know,  had  strong  hopes 
of  another  solution  of  the  difficulty,  and  was  directing 
all  his  energies  toward  securing  that. 

So  in  the  meantime  Saint  Veran  was  left  alone. 
Within  the  wide  house  of  the  old  couple  who  had  first 
entertained  Flower-o'-the-Corn  as  an  angel  unawares, 
these  three  abode  with  vast  content.  They  had  all 
rolled  far  athwart  the  world,  and  therefore  loved  those 
days  of  peace  and  summer  skies  that  sometimes  surprise 
us  in  the  midst  of  the  grimmest  winter  weather. 

All  three  of  them  had  that  rare  gift  of  detachment 
which  often  enables  a  man,  and  more  rarely  a  woman, 
to  enjoy  the  sunny  to-day,  letting  the  morrow  take  care 
of  the  things  of  itself. 

Of  course,  even  in  Saint  Veran,  Maurice  Raith  was 

269 


270        FLOWER-O'-THE-CORN 

very  far  from  being  idle.  With  the  assistance  of  Billy 
Marshall  he  organized  the  fighting  forces  of  the  village, 
erecting  rough  but  strong  forts  among  the  scattered 
bowlders,  digging  trenches  across  the  narrow  isthmus 
behind,  and  extending  the  defensible  area  on  which  the 
cattle  and  sheep  of  the  villagers  must  subsist  in  time  of 
closer  siege. 

As  usual,  Mr.  Patrick  Wellwood  preached  and  prayed 
with  the  utmost  acceptance.  Never  had  such  words  of 
fire  been  heard  in  Saint  Veran.  And  that  curious  con- 
gregation of  militant  Christians  who  came  to  morning 
and  evening  worship  with  swords  by  their  sides  and 
guns  in  their  hands,  listened  with  open  ears  (sometimes 
with  mouths  also)  to  the  brief  trenchant  appeals,  ring- 
ing like  the  trumpet-blasts  which  had  carried  Ardmillan's 
regiment  into  the  battle,  its  chaplain  charging  first  in  the 
van  after  Sir  Archibald  himself. 

And  Flower-o'-the-Corn? 

Naturally  she  was  more  beautiful  than  ever.  Some- 
thing sweet,  innocent,  and  sage  disengaged  itself  like  a 
perfume  from  her  every  look  and  action. 

She  and  Maurice  were  by  no  means  demonstrative 
lovers,  and  she  sat  most  often  beside  the  old  man,  her 
father,  when  he  was  not  engaged  in  his  ministrations 
among  the  poorer  houses  of  Saint  Veran. 

It  does  not  appear  that  at  first  they  thought  much  of 
escape — at  least,  no  reference  to  this  appears  in  the 
records.  Maurice  had  fulfilled  his  commission  in  carry- 
ing out  the  landing  of  stores  and  sending  back  a  de- 
spatch, so  he  felt  himself  at  liberty  to  await  further  orders 
where  he  was — orders  which  in  present  circumstances 
would  have  some  difificulty  in  reaching  him. 

Patrick  Wellwood  was  happy  wherever  there  was  a 
soul  to  be  saved,  or  a  home  into  which  to  bring  the 
Gospel  of  an  affectionate  presence  and  the  sympathy  of 
a  Christian  gentleman. 

As  for  Frances — well,  it  was  yet  the  first  days  of  a 
new  thing  for  her.     She  had  found  him  whom  her  soul 


DAYS  THAT  COME  NOT  TWICE    271 

loved — and  beyond  that  what  is  there  more  for  any 
woman  ? 

Much  more,  verily!  But  the  very  young  (and  the 
very  much  in  love)  do  not  think  of  it. 

Only  Billy  Marshall  and  his  wife  Bet  mourned  and 
longed  for  the  fleshpots  of  Keltonhill  Fair.  With  a  kind 
of  second-sight  the  gypsy  saw  the  long  ranges  of  ragged 
"  tans  "  scattered  among  the  broom  and  whins,  the  larger 
tents  for  the  drinking  booths,  the  earthen  "  lean-to's," 
the  gayly-caparisoned  "  cuddies "  of  the  wandering 
tinker  and  the  more  staid  saddle-bags  of  the  packman's 
shelties. 

He  saw,  he  spake,  and  his  soul  longed  exceedingly 
after  them.  Plans  of  escape  floated  indefinitely  before 
his  eyes,  growing  more  and  more  impossible  to  be  put 
behind  him. 

Since  the  cutting  of  the  cable  there  had  been  no  direct 
communication  between  the  Camisards  of  the  Causse 
Noir  and  those  on  the  larger  plateau  of  the  Larzac. 

"  All  well  "  signals,  previously  agreed  upon,  had  been 
exchanged  indeed,  by  means  of  blankets  waved  by  day 
and  bonfires  lit  by  night.  But  these  told  little  save  that 
the  Brethren  of  the  Way  still  held  their  own  on  one 
Causse  and  the  other. 

But  it  was  obvious  that  all  this  could  not  last.  Some 
day  the  King's  other  wars  on  his  eastern  and  south- 
eastern frontiers  would  end.  The  released  armies  would 
be  poured  over  the  Cevennes  from  all  sides,  the  brave 
peasants  exterminated  or  driven  from  the  lands  which 
had  been  their  forefathers'  before  ever  a  Bourbon  sat 
upon  the  throne  of  France. 

So  in  the  little  room,  which  at  night  was  the  bedroom 
of  Monsieur  and  Madame  Montbeliard  and  in  the  day- 
time the  general  place  of  meeting  of  the  family,  including 
visitors,  four  friends  were  assembled  talking  over  ways 
and  means.  In  the  window-seat,  naturally  a  little  apart, 
sat  Maurice  Raith  and  Flower-o'-the-Corn.  Their  semi- 
privacy  was  respected  by  all  save  the  old  minister,  who 


272        FLOWER-O'-THE-CORN 

saw  no  reason  in  the  world  why  they  should  not  listen 
all  day  and  half  the  night  to  expositions  of  the  short- 
comings of  the  Revolution  Settlement  and  the  lack  of 
firmness  showed  by  the  Kirk  of  Scotland  on  that  mo- 
mentous occasion.  "  The  sin  of  sinful  conformity  " — 
"  the  inclusion  of  the  Malignants  " — "  the  payment  of 
Cess  to  an  Uncovenanted  King " — these  and  similar 
phrases  played  a  great  part  in  his  disquisitions.  But 
there  were  alleviations.  On  such  occasions  Patrick 
Wellwood  was  accustomed  to  turn  his  eyes  heavenward 
as  if  seeking  in  the  region  of  the  stars  confirmation  of 
the  Auchensaagh  Covenanting,  and  in  the  meantime  the 
corner  of  a  shawl  or  the  back  of  a  chair  did  wonderful 
things  in  hiding  the  fact  that  Maurice  Raith  was  holding 
the  hand  of  his  daughter  Frances. 

On  this  bleak  and  bitter  February  morning  the  snow- 
flakes  were  swirling  outside  as  if  it  had  been  the  front 
of  a  Scottish  March,  while  the  ground  was  hard  as  iron 
underfoot.  But  there  was  a  tender  and  sympathetic 
heart  within  that  Saint  Veran  house — that  of  Madame 
Montbeliard.  Soft  and  somewhat  unwieldy  in  person, 
seldom  moving  from  her  chair  except  to  superintend 
the  cooking  of  a  meal — in  which  it  must  be  owned  she 
displayed  an  astonishing  activity  and  directness  of 
method,  never  weighing  or  measuring  anything,  but, 
like  all  born  cooks,  doing  everything  by  rule  of  thumb 
and  the  inner  light  which  is  genius,  Madame  Mont- 
beliard had  conserved  a  little  green  plot  in  her  heart, 
where  Love  still  gambolled  and  made  sport.  Not  for 
herself  but  for  others  was  this  "  square  of  pleached 
green  " — for  never  was  matron  more  devoted  to  her  bald 
and  middle-aged  husband.  And  now  this  pleasaunce 
belonged  by  right  of  trover  to  these  agreeable  young 
people,  Maurice  and  Frances. 

So  among  other  good  and  kindly  deeds,  Madame 
Montbeliard  undertook  the  task  of  diverting  the  stream 
of  ecclesiastical  instruction  upon  herself,  and  by  dint  of 
a  French  translation  of  an  old  Nuremburg  Catechism 


DAYS  THAT  COME  NOT  TWICE     273 

(which  had  belonged  to  her  father-in-law)  she  was  able 
to  propound  a  host  of  difficult  questions,  and  even  to 
obtain  the  reputation  in  the  eyes  of  Pjatrick  Wellwood 
of  being  "  the  most  acute  and  subtle  theologian — for  a 
woman,"  he  had  ever  met.  And  this  was  no  small  praise 
from  a  man  who  had  so  long  lived  in  Geneva,  where  the 
very  babes  in  long  clothes  lisp  systems  of  divinity,  and 
where  outside  the  window  of  his  mistress  the  orthodox 
lover  sings  to  the  night  airs  a  psalm  of  Jean  Cauvin 
instead  of  a  chanson  by  that  other  very  extraordinary 
Huguenot,  M.  Clement  Marot. 

Behind  the  friendly  double  curtain,  then,  Maurice 
Raith  and  Frances  complaisantly  pursued  their  own 
affairs,  even  as  many  others  had  done  before  them — and 
a  few  since.  Their  talk  is  no  concern  of  ours.  It  was 
neither  more  learned,  more  extraordinary,  nor  more 
impersonal  than  the  talk  of  lovers  has  been  ever  since  the 
world  began.  It  is  not  on  the  record — the  words  in  the 
original  Hebrew  do  not  literally  warrant  the  translation, 
but  from  the  context  it  is  evident  that  Adam's  first  re- 
mark to  Eve  was,  "  What  beautiful  eyes  you  have !  " 
To  which  she  replied,  dropping  conscious  lids,  "  Do  you 
think  so?" 

And  so  shall  it  be  so  long  as  the  wind  bloweth  where  it 
listeth  and  the  heart  of  man  moveth  within  him  aright. 

Mainly,  however,  Maurice  was  telling  Flower-o'-the- 
Corn  about  Raith — its  old  gray  mansion  house,  the 
small-paned  windows  in  the  thickness  of  the  wall  which 
he  would  have  enlarged  for  her  drawing-room,  the  old- 
fashioned  trimness  of  the  clipped  garden,  the  tall  windy 
oaks  and  beeches  of  the  rookery,  from  which  at  eve  and 
morn  all  the  year  round  there  came  a  crying  like  the  surf 
breaking  on  a  sandy  shore. 

Meanwhile,  upon  the  other  side  of  the  chamber,  nearer 
to  the  fire  (which  these  two  young  people  had  less  need 
of),  behold  the  theologians  !  A  heavy  baize  curtain  shut 
them  off.  So  also  did  the  massive  proportions  and 
exuberant  morning-robe  of  good  Madame  Montbeliard. 


274        FLOWER-O'-THE-CORN 

The  Reverend  Patrick  was  at  the  moment  attacking  a 
particularly  knotty  point — nothing  less  than  the  Nature 
and  Attributes  of  the  Saviour  of  men  before  the  day  of 
the  wondrous  Birth  and  the  wonderment  of  certain 
shepherd  folk  in  the  Vale  of  Bread. 

Patrick  Wellwood  spoke  high  and  vehement  as  to  a 
fellow-disputant  of  his  own  calibre — which  in  itself  was 
no  small  compliment.  Madame  Montbeliard,  her  em- 
broidery on  her  lap,  spoke  not  at  all,  but  only  looked 
up  and  nodded  good-humoredly  at  critical  moments, 
or,  made  bold  by  immunity,  intimated  a  dissent  with  a 
shake  of  her  head  or  a  questioning  glance  out  of  her 
black  beady  eyes. 

Behind  their  screen  the  lovers  spoke  low,  with  clasped 
hands,  leaning  one  toward  the  other  like  stooks  of  corn 
in  a  harvest  field.  The  loud  sound  of  disputation 
reached  Flower-o'-the-Corn  through  her  half-closed  eyes 
like  the  very  clang  and  clatter  of  the  rookery  at  Raith 
of  which  Maurice  had  just  been  telling  her.  She  was 
wondering  if,  as  he  said,  it  should  be  her  lot  to  have  that 
cawing  turmoil  awake  her  in  the  dawns  for  the  greater 
part  of  her  life,  and  what  she  would  be  thinking  of  then. 

A  sharp  knock  came  to  the  door.  Flower-o'-the- 
Corn  sat  up  suddenly  with  immense  dignity.  A  blush 
vivid  as  a  damask  rose  flooded  her  cheeks.  The  dis- 
tance between  herself  and  Maurice  increased  as  imper- 
ceptibly and  mysteriously  as  that  which  grows  between 
the  shore  and  a  voyager  gazing  over  the  parting  vessel's 
stern. 

Upon  Billy  Marshall's  entrance  Maurice  stood  up  with 
a  quickly  darkening  brow.  "  What  do  you  want  here?  " 
he  said,  with  all  the  brusqueness  of  a  lover  whose  tete-d- 
tete  has  been  interrupted. 

The  gypsy  saluted  with  his  own  slow  self-respect,  the 
true  Galloway  dourness,  which  passes  not  away  with  the 
centuries,  and  which  strangers  find  so  aggravating. 

"  Maister  Maurice,"  he  said,  "  I  hae  bode  wi'  ye  as 
lang  as  Bet  and  me  can  bide.     This  year  I  maun  be  back 


DAYS  THAT  COME  NOT  TWICE     275 

on  the  Rhone-house  braes  by  the  day  of  Keltonhill,  and 
Bet  maun  gang  wi'  me.  Mickle  sorrow  wad  I  hae  to 
leave  behind  me  you  an'  the  bonny  doo  there  at  your 
richt  hand.  I  saw  your  twa  heids  closer  thegither  as 
I  cam'  up  the  street — an'  'deed,  what  for  no?  I  mind 
weel  when  me  an'  Bet — ow,  aye,  I'll  gang  on  wi'  my 
story  richt  eneuch — gin  your  honor  pleases 


"  Wi'  than,  the  short  an'  the  lang  o't  is,  that  I  hae 
bidden  here  as  lang  as  I  am  gaun  to  bide.  If  ye  winna 
let  us  gang,  we  wuU  juist  hae  to  tak'  the  road  wantin' 
your  honor's  valued  permission." 

"  Billy,"  said  Maurice  sternly,  "  that  is  not  the  way  to 
speak  to  your  superior  officer !  " 

"  Is't  no?  "  inquired  Billy,  as  one  who  asks  for  infor- 
mation. "  Weel,  that's  a  peety,  too,  for  it's  e'en  the  way 
I  spak  to  my  Cornel  mony  a  year  in  the  auld  sax-an'- 
twentieth.  An'  what's  guid  eneuch  for  him  will  hae  to 
do  its  dooms  best  to  serve  for  you !  " 

The  sudden  fervor  of  Billy's  tones  interrupted  the  flow 
of  controversial  divinity  by  the  fireside.  The  minister 
fixed  Billy  with  his  one  steady  eye  and  proceeded  to 
scarify  him  from  head  to  foot  with  the  other,  till  the 
superstitious  gypsy  put  up  both  hands  before  his  face 
to  shield  him  from  the  roving  terror  of  the  orb. 

"  Dinna,  minister,  dinna  !  "  he  cried  ;  "  pit  a  halter  on't, 
for  guid-sake.  It's  no  canny  to  be  lowse.  I'll  speak 
ye  fair,  an'  the  young  man  too — faithfully  hae  I  served 
him,  as  he  can  testify ;  but  Keltonhill  Fair  canna  be 
missed  anither  year,  neither  for  master  nor  man,  gen- 
eral, captain,  minister,  Lord  Marlborough  nor  Lord 
A'michty !  " 

"  Wherefore  do  you  speak  of  leaving  this  haven  of 
rest  and  peace?  "  demanded  the  chaplain  of  Ardmillan's 
regiment. 

"  Ye  may  ask,"  said  Billy,  "  and  by  the  Lord,  I'se  no 
1)6  slow  in  tellin'  ye.     Ye  are  a  learned  man,  they  tell 


276        FLOWER-O'-THE-CORN 

me — did  ye  never  hear  tell  o'  Keltonhill  Fair  in  your 
travels  athwart  the  world  ?  " 

"  It  seemeth  to  me  that  I  have  heard  the  name,"  said 
the  chaplain ;  "  'tis  one  of  those  resorts  of  the  profane 
and  the  ungodly  which  are,  alas !  too  common  in  our 
native  country,  where  vulgar  drinking  and  more  vulgar 
mirth  take  the  place  of  that  sobriety  of  walk  and  conver- 
sation, which  alone  are  in  accord  with  the  teachings  of 
the  Westminster  divines  as  expressed  in  their  Confession 
of  Faith  and  Catechisms  Larger  and  Shorter." 

"  There's  some  gye  queer  nuiks  and  corners  i'  West- 
minster, sir,"  said  Billy,  shaking  his  head ;  "  I  hae  had 
my  billet  there — that  was  afore  Bet  cam'  oot  to  me. 
Faith,  an'  ye  baud  up  Westminster  for  an  example  o' 
sobriety,  I'se  back  Keltonhill  Fair  again  it  ony  day. 
Man,  even  the  Tinkler's  Knowe  is  a  presbytery  com- 
pared wi'  it !  " 

"  I  spake  not  of  the  city  of  Westminster,  the  suburb 
of  the  great  and  Babylonish  town  of  London,"  said  the 
chaplain,  "  but  of  the  venerable  company  of  divines  that 
for  a  time  sojourned  in  that  place  and  erected  the  most 
wonderful  monument  of  human  wisdom  in  the  world." 

"  Na,  na,  minister,"  said  Billy,  "  there  ye  are  again 

mista'en it's  no  at  Westminster  that  the  Moniment 

Stan's,  but  awa'  doon  by  the  waterside  at  the  place  they 
caa  Billinsgate — an',  Lord,  but  the  tongues  o'  the  ran- 
dies there  are  hard  to  bide.  Hoosomever,  Bet  wasna 
wi'  me,  as  I  say — and,  faith,  Billy  Marshall  wasna  blate 
at  answerin'  them  back !  " 

"  I  fear  we  are  doomed  to  misunderstand  each  other," 
said  Mr.  Wellwood,  smiling.  "  But,  as  I  take  it,  it  is 
your  desire  to  depart  out  of  this  place  in  order  to  be 
present  at  certain  festivities  in  your  own  native  country 
of  Galloway." 

"  Dinna  caa  Keltonhill  Fair  a  festeevity,  man,  as  if  it 
war  just  a  kind  o'  Englishy  Kirsmass,  or  a  Sant's  day 
like  what  ye  micht  see  amang  thae  benichted  haythen. 
Man,  there's  mair  nor  ten  thoosend  men,  forbye  weemen 


DAYS  THAT  COME  NOT  TWICE     277 

and  bairns,  no  to  speak  o'  common  Eerish  fowk  there, 
and  mair  horses  than  wad  reach  to  Johnny  Groats  stand- 
ing head  to  tail — and  to  caa  Keltonhill  a  festeevity ! 
Then  the  drink — man,  ye  canna  gang  the  first  sax  mile 
in  ony  direction  after  the  second  day  without  sprachlin' 
ower  drunk  fowk  at  every  third  step — and  to  caa  the 
like  o'  that  a  meeserable  festeevity ! " 

Patrick  Wellwood  rose  to  his  feet,  and  lifted  his  right 
hand  high  in  the  air  with  a  solemn  aspect.  "  I  am  with 
you,"  he  said.  "  I  had  thought  that  I  was  called  to 
remain  and  speak  unto  this  people.  But  I  see  few  in 
this  place  who  are  not  prepared  to  die,  whilst,  if  this  be 
true  which  this  poor  ignorant  man  hath  spoken,  there 
remain  depths  of  wickedness  yet  to  be  plumbed  in  mine 
own  land.  I  have  a  call,  it  rings  clear  in  my  heart.  I 
must  go  further,  and  preach  the  Word  in  other  cities 
also.  Yes,  I  will  take  my  pilgrim  staff  in  hand  and  over- 
pass." 

"  What's  your  wull  ?  "  gasped  the  mystified  Billy. 

"  I  will  preach  the  Gospel  upon  Keltonhill !  " 

Billy  sprang  completely  off  the  ground,  as  if  he  had 
received  a  deadly  shock.  "  The  man's  gaen  gyte !  "  he 
cried.  "  Preach  on  Keltonhill !  Man,  it's  mair  nor 
your  life's  worth.  Bide  where  ye  are  an'  be  hangit  by 
King  Louis — shot  for  a  spy  by  the  reprobate  Banville 
doon  ayont  there,  throw  yoursel'  into  the  sea  aff  the 
Co'en  heuchs,  but  keep  far  aff  frae  Keltonhill  in  the 
time  o'  the  fair.  They  are  an  awesome  set,  I'm  telling 
ye,  and  if  ye  even  prayed,  let  alane  preachin',  they  wad 
cudgel  ye  to  daith  like  a  mad  dowg !  " 

"  I  am  not  of  those  who  count  their  lives  dear  unto 
them,"  said  Patrick  Wellwood.  "  If  it  be  the  will  of 
the  Lord  I  will  company  with  you  and  preach  the  Gospel 
at  Keltonhill." 

Billy  had  gained  a  powerful  ally.  For  Frances  would 
not  once  have  thought  of  opposing  her  father  when  the 
"  call  "  came  upon  him. 

Yet  it  was  with  something  of  sadness  that  she  looked 


278         FLOWER-O'-THE-CORN 

forward  to  the  breaking  up  of  their  peaceful  time  in  the 
little  chamber  of  Saint  Veran,  built  out  like  a  swallow's 
nest  over  the  abyss. 

It  was  arranged  that  they  should  set  out  upon  the 
following  Monday.  It  was  already  Wednesday,  and  the 
intervening  days  were  fully  taken  up  with  the  necessary 
preparations.  The  route  by  Switzerland  was  chosen, 
both  because  Patrick  Wellwood  and  his  daughter  knew 
it  better  (having  already  travelled  it  on  their  way  thither), 
and  also  because  a  complete  "  Underground  Railway  " 
existed  for  sending  persons  and  things  in  and  out  of 
the  Cevennes. 

On  the  Sabbath  Patrick  Wellwood  preached  what  was 
understood  to  be  his  farewell  sermon  to  the  people  of 
Saint  Veran.  His  text  was,  "  A  city  set  upon  a  hill  can- 
not be  hid,"  and  the  preacher  spoke  of  their  little  de- 
fenced  town  as  a  place  where,  like  Moses  on  Sinai,  he 
had  seen  the  back  parts  of  God  ;  and  again,  like  to  Kadesh 
in  the  wilderness,  from  whose  twice-smitten  rock  the 
water  of  life  had  flowed  out. 

"  It  may  be,"  he  said,  "  that  it  shall  be  yours  to  pass 
through  the  water  and  through  the  fire,  but  the  same 
God  who  stilled  the  striving  at  Meribah  and  was  as  a 
flame  of  fire  round  about  His  people  on  Horeb,  at  the 
waters  of  the  Red  Sea,  and  by  the  brooks  of  Arnon, 
shall  do  so  for  your  sakes,  and  more  also.  As  there  is 
given  to  me  the  gift  of  seeing,  I  declare  to  you  that  the 
persecutor  shall  not  remain  long  in  the  midst  of  you. 
Yet  a  little  and  his  hand  shall  be  shortened !  First,  how- 
ever, ye  must  be  tried  as  by  fire,  yet  ye  shall  come  forth 
out  of  the  furnace  seven  times  heated  as  gold  that  is 
seven  times  refined.  This  is  my  last  word,  and  fare  ye 
well!" 

Upon  which  there  issued  a  sound  of  weeping  through 
all  the  congregation,  women  sobbing  without  restraint 
because  of  his  declaration  that  he  should  never  see  them 
again,  and  never  speak  the  Word  of  Life  to  them  again. 
Even  the  cheeks  of  the  men  were  not  wholly  dry. 


DAYS  THAT  COME  NOT  TWICE     279 

Then  he  said,  "  Verily,  hear  what  I  speak.  I  have 
spoken  but  a  few  times  to  you,  but  there  hath  been  given 
to  me  the  message  that  is  not  mine  own,  and  if  ye  will 
only  do  that  which  I  have  spoken  unto  you,  ye  too 
shall  dwell  peaceably  in  a  peaceable  land,  wherein  your 
souls  shall  be  as  well-watered  gardens." 

Then  knew  they  all  that  he  spake  to  them  of  Spirit 
Seguier,  one  of  their  number,  who  had  been  put  to  the 
death  by  torture  by  Du  Chayla,  the  Inquisitor  of  the 
Cevennes. 

And  in  a  corner  Frances  Wellwood  sat  on  a  stool  with 
Maurice  Raith  standing  erect  beside  her.  There  were 
tears  in  the  young  man's  eyes,  because  of  his  love  and 
for  those  sweet  first  days  that  should  be  no  more ;  and 
also,  let  us  believe,  because  a  woman  may  in  such  things 
make  of  a  man  what  she  will, — not,  it  may  be,  in  the 
matter  of  belief  but  certainly  in  conduct  and  the  rever- 
ence which  comes  with  sympathy. 

These  two  went  out  together,  and  as  they  followed 
the  dusky  line  of  the  Temple  wall  Flower-o'-the-Corn 
put  her  hand  upon  the  young  man's  arm. 

"  Maurice,  you  have  loved  me  here,  where  there  are 
only  poor  common  folk — these  plain  peasant  women, 
but  will  it  be  the  same  when  you  are  once  again  the 
favorite  of  my  Lord  Duke  ?  " 

"  Frances !  "  cried  the  young  man,  aghast  at  some- 
thing Hke  the  sound  of  a  sob  which  he  heard,  "  you 
cannot  think  it — you  cannot  dream  it?  Was  I  not  my 
lord's  secretary,  almost  his  companion,  before  I  ever  set 
eyes  on  you?  Did  I  ever  love  any  woman  as  I  have 
loved  you  ?  " 

"  You  have  told  me  so,"  said  Flower-o'-the-Corn,  with 
her  face  directed  to  the  ground. 

"  Look  up,  little  one,"  he  said,  earnestly ;  "  look  at  me 
and  tell  me  that  you  do  not  believe  this  thing.  These 
are  words  and  no  more.  Listen  !  I  am  a  poor  man — you 
will  have  a  hundred  offers  from  richer,  better  men  than 
Maurice  Raith.     My  patrimony  is  but  a  run  for  black- 


28o 


FLOWER-O'-THE-CORN 


faced  sheep.  My  castle  is  half-ruinous,  only  a  few  rooms 
in  it  are  habitable.  We  shall  be  poor — that  is,  if  you 
keep  your  promise  and  consent  to  share  that  poverty 
with  me — yes,  and  with  my  dear  Aunt  Devorgil.  She 
will  be  no  charge  to  us,  for  she  is  of  those  who  would 
say  a  blessing  over  a  buttered  parsnip — aye,  more  thank- 
fully than  many  a  lord  over  a  Saint  James'  ordinary  or 
a  feast  at  the  palace  of  the  King !  " 

She  smiled  at  him  through  a  mist  of  tears. 

"  Well,  love  me — love  me — only  keep  on  loving  me," 
she  murmured.  And  after  a  silence  she  added,  "  And 
do  not  get  tired  of  telling  me  of  it,  please! " 


XXXIII 

THE    RESIN-GATHERER'S    HUT 

BUT  to  leave  Saint  Veran  was  easier  said  than  done. 
The  Marquis  de  Montrevel  was,  indeed,  an  easy- 
going nobleman,  and  as  a  domestic  man  his  ideas 
certainly  did  not  err  on  the  side  of  over-strictness.  But, 
as  a  general,  he  had  few  rivals  among  the  Marshals  of 
France.  He  was  persistent,  calm,  far-seeing,  a  dangerous 
adversary,  a  diplomat  by  nature,  a  tactician  by  habit  and 
education. 

That  he  knew  of  the  presence  of  the  two  English  en- 
voys in  the  Camisard  stronghold  of  Saint  Veran  on  the 
cliffs  of  the  Dourbie  is  more  than  probable,  and  this  al- 
together apart  from  any  information  afiforded  to  him  by 
his  wife.  For  Yvette  Foy  had  her  own  (very  curious) 
code  of  honor,  and  though  she  would  work  for  the  suc- 
cess of  her  husband's  schemes  with  heart  and  soul,  she 
had  that  in  her  which  prevented  her  revealing  the  pres- 
ence of  Flower-o'-the-Corn  in  Saint  Veran. 

On  the  other  hand,  it  was  equally  characteristic  of  de 
Montrevel  that  he  should  possess  the  information,  that 
he  should  know  that  his  wife  possessed  it,  and  yet  never 
for  a  moment  betray  his  knowledge  by  word  or  look. 

There  was  under  that  blufif  kindly  exterior,  behind  that 
wary  all-measuring  eye  with  the  twinkle  coming  and  go- 
ing in  it,  the  myriad  wrinkles  cross-hatched  beneath  it 
fine  as  those  on  the  face  of  a  meal-miller,  concealed  by 
the  figure  broad-set  and  vigorous  as  that  of  a  merchant 
captain,  a  vast  knowledge  and  a  limitless  experience  of 
men  and  things.  Without  an  atom  of  vanity  the  man  was 
self-contained,  sufficient  unto  himself  and  to  his  business. 

281 


282        FLOWER-O'-THE-CORN 

It  may  be  questioned  if  there  was  any  one  in  France 
save  a  certain  lank  and  rapidly-growing  lad,  presently 
under  the  care  of  the  Jesuits  in  the  College  Louis-le- 
Grand,  Francois  Marie  Arouet  by  name,  who  afterward 
was  heard  from  in  this  world,  and  may  possibly  surprise 
many  people  in  the  next),  who  could  more  accurately 
sum  up  and  settle  the  merits  of  the  great  and  unparal- 
leled sovereign  under  whom  all  Frenchmen  lived, 
breathed,  and  had  their  being,  than  this  same  staunch, 
many-sided,  much-enduring  connoisseur  in  the  good 
things  of  life,  Nicholas  de  Baume,  Marquis  de  Montrevel. 

Almost  sole  among  the  men  of  his  time  he  knew  ex- 
actly what  he  wanted,  and  so  ended  by  obtaining  it.  He 
did  not,  perhaps,  aim  very  high,  but  then  he  generally 
overshot  his  own  mark.  Hence  he  did  not  sufifer  from 
disappointed  ambition. 

It  was,  he  considered,  a  good  thing  to  be  a  Marshal  of 
France.  It  was  a  dignity  worth  retiring  upon.  Well, 
he  had  in  his  time  paid  court  to  favorites,  and  carried  his 
weather-beaten  visage  and  shrewd  humorous  twinkle  into 
ladies'  drawing-rooms.  He  had  had  a  great  familiarity 
with  the  lap-dogs  of  Madame  de  Montespan,  and  he 
knew  the  best  bookbinders  for  missals  in  the  time  of  her 
present  more  severe  successor,  Madame  de  Maintenon. 

He  had  even  taken  service  as  a  page  in  the  early  genial 
days  of  La  Valiere  of  the  Velvet  Eyes,  and  had  not  failed 
to  profit  by  the  friendship  of  a  woman  who  was  glad  to 
come  across  a  brave  and  honest  man  among  a  crew  of 
courtiers  and  sycophants. 

So  at  the  end  of  all  Nicholas  de  Baume  was,  indeed,  a 
Marshal  of  France.  Now  he  could  afiford  to  let  lap-dogs 
and  Prayer-books  alone.  He  had,  it  is  true,  been  too  long 
in  putting  down  the  rising  in  the  heretic  districts  to  please 
the  present  arbiter  of  France  and  disposer  of  the  smiles 
of  the  King.  The  Marshal's  baton  was  the  last  favor  he 
could  reasonably  expect,  but  in  return  for  it  he  resolved 
to  give  the  King  a  little  parting  surprise. 

With  the  cross-gartered  stafif  in  his  hand  he  could  af- 


RESIN-GATHERER'S    HUT      283 

ford  to  marry  the  woman  who  pleased  him,  and  also  end 
the  revolt  in  the  Cevennes  in  his  own  way,  without  the 
edge  of  the  dragoon's  sword  or  the  rattle  of  the  State's 
artillery. 

This,  as  he  prophesied,  would  not  greatly  please  Scar- 
ron's  widow,  nor  the  bigots  of  the  long  robe.  But  the 
thing  would  be  done  just  the  same. 

It  was  in  pursuance  of  this  plan  that  a  most  careful 
watch  was  kept,  not  only  upon  the  proceedings  of  Jean 
Cavalier  in  the  main  fortress  of  La  Cavalerie,  but  also 
upon  the  much  more  innocent  actions  of  three  people  of 
Scottish  birth  in  the  little  swallow's  nest  among  the  cliffs 
of  Saint  Veran. 

It  is  scarcely  necessary  to  say  that  such  a  man  as  de 
Montrevel  made  few  mistakes.  Out  of  the  Camisard  dis- 
trict, the  population  generally  was  strongly  Catholic. 
Spies  were  numerous,  and  generally  their  information 
could  be  depended  upon.  Only  along  one  line  were  the 
Protestant  families  sufBciently  numerous  to  pass  the  fugi- 
tives on  from  one  station  to  another.  This  series  of  out- 
posts followed  the  River  Gardon  till  its  junction  with  the 
Rhone  valley,  crossed  the  great  river  at  Aramon,  swerved 
south  toward  Saint  Remy,  and  then  turned  northward 
again  toward  Grenoble  and  the  foothills  of  the  Alps. 

Here  the  Protestants  were  (and  are  still)  very  numer- 
ous, and  as  the  good  Montbeliards  had  made  every  ar- 
rangement among  their  friends  and  correspondents,  there 
seemed  good  hope  that  all  the  refugees  would  reach  the 
Pays  du  Vaud  in  safety. 


It  is  in  a  country  of  shallow  ctangs  (or  in  the  Scots 
language  "  stanks  ")  that  we  again  come  up  with  our 
friends.  The  company  had  made  its  way  thus  far  with- 
out molestment.  The  Rhone  had  been  crossed  and  lay 
behind,  sunk  in  its  wide  shallow  trench.  Away  to  the 
right  stretched  the  Mount  of  Victory,  blue  and  faint, 
whence  once  on  a  time  Marius  looked  down  on  Aries 


284        FLOWER-O'-THE-CORN 

over  the  heaped  bodies  of  the  barbarians — men,  women, 
children  and  dogs,  all  of  whom  had  died  fighting  to  the 
last  gasp  against  the  Roman  legions. 

The  fierce  mistral  of  the  Rhone  valley,  which  parches 
the  body  and  even  shrivels  the  immortal  soul,  had  ceased 
blowing  at  dusk.  And  now,  upon  borrowed  horses,  Pat- 
rick Wellwood  and  his  daughter  were  picking  their  way 
through  the  pine-woods  and  marshes  of  northern  Prov- 
ence, while  the  other  three  trudged  afoot.  Maurice  led 
Flower-o'-the-Corn's  beast  in  the  tracks  of  their  guide, 
who  stalked  ahead  like  an  anxious  heron.  He  was  a  long 
man,  buttoned  up  in  leathern  garments,  shining  with  dirt 
and  grease,  but  he  knew  the  ways  alike  in  dark  and  light. 

The  horses  which  had  belonged  to  Pierre  the  Wagoner 
of  Roche-a-Bayard  and  Hoo  stayed  behind  at  Saint 
Veran.  The  good  Montbeliards  steadfastly  refused  to  re- 
ceive them  as  a  present,  although  urged  thereto  by  Mau- 
rice Raith,  whose  intent  it  was  to  be  generous  at  the  ex- 
pense of  the  Government  of  his  native  country. 

"  No,"  said  the  stout  old  Huguenot;  "  if  the  Lord  con- 
tinue His  providences  toward  His  own,  and  I  am  able  to 
sell  your  horses  to  any  advantage,  be  assured  that  I  shall 
forward  the  price  of  them  to  the  camp  of  my  Lord  Marl- 
borough." 

And  even  so  the  matter  had  to  be  left. 

Now  the  great  eastward-trending  trough  which  ex- 
tends from  Aramon,  where  they  had  crossed  the  river,  all 
the  way  to  Saint  Remy,  was  still  at  that  time  largely  over- 
grown with  pine-trees.  The  sole  inhabitants  of  the  dis- 
trict were  a  few  charcoal-burners  about  Mailanne,  while 
in  the  woods  themselves  there  sojourned  gatherers  of 
resin,  who  tapped  trees  and  caused  the  resin  to  flow  into 
little  vessels  of  burnt  clay,  so  that  the  whole  forest  was 
filled  with  a  sweet  odor,  healthy  and  bracing  as  the  scent 
of  the  sea. 

As  they  went  Maurice  and  Frances  conversed  in  a  low 
tone.  In  the  marshes  far  away  the  bittern  boomed  dully 
all  unheeded,  while  in  all  the  ditches,  along  whose  banks 


RESIN-GATHERER'S    HUT      285 

they  made  their  devious  way,  certain  frogs,  small  and 
green  as  to  their  persons  and  optimist  of  disposition, 
croaked  tentatively  in  the  darkness,  vaguely  anticipant  of 
spring. 

Their  guide  had  been  supplied  to  them  at  their  last 
halting-place,  where  he  had  agreed,  in  his  soft  liquid- 
sounding  Provencal  speech,  to  guide  them  safe  to  a  resin- 
gatherer's  hut  at  the  north-eastern  corner  of  those 
strangely  splintered  hills  called  the  "  Alpines,"  which, 
with  their  white  stone  pinnacles,  glittered  mysteriously 
under  the  starlight,  or  appeared  yet  more  spectral  as  the 
late  moon  rose  over  them  and  cast  a  gray  reflection  here 
and  there  through  the  openings  of  the  forest  upon  the 
gloomy  pools  of  the  marsh  lands. 

Yet  it  was  a  not  uncheerful  time.  The  fugitives  had 
left  the  doom-stricken  Cevennes  behind  them.  Only 
once,  from  a  solitary  eminence  as  they  were  crossing  the 
rugged  foothills  of  the  Rhone  valley  south  of  Barben- 
tane,  they  had  seen  behind  them  very  far  away,  sunk  low 
on  the  horizon  like  a  water-logged  ship  on  the  sea-line, 
the  rounded  snow-whitened  summits  of  the  Camisard 
Gausses. 

So  now,  in  another  land  and  among  a  more  cheerful 
people,  with  the  rocks  of  Mont  Majeur  on  one  side,  and 
the  snowy  steeps  of  Mont  Ventour  on  the  other,  the 
travellers  began  to  anticipate  the  fragrance  of  the  true 
Alps.  The  sloe,  the  juniper,  and  the  salicorne  under  their 
feet,  the  harsh  and  prickly  samphire  of  the  wastes — these 
they  were  leaving  behind  them — so,  at  least  they 
thought.  Before  them,  across  the  Alpine  passes,  was  the 
ploughed  land  and  the  fallow. 

Soon  the  land  of  safety  and  of  their  own  religion  would 
be  about  them.  Meantime,  there  was  weariness  of  limb, 
and  the  prospect  of  rest  and  food  in  some  resin-gatherer's 
hut  on  the  flanks  of  the  rocks  of  Baux. 

That  at  least  would  be  welcome,  Frances  thought — ah, 
never  welcomer.  For,  in  spite  of  Maurice  Raith's  sus- 
taining hand,  and  his  careful  management  of  her  slow- 


286        FLOWER-O'-THE-CORN 

stepping  beast,  Flower-o'-the-Corn  had  grown  deadly 
tired.  And  as  the  lantern  in  the  hand  of  the  guide  turned 
a  moment  upon  those  behind,  Maurice  saw  dark  circles 
about  her  eyes. 

"  Not  much  farther — up  there — in  yonder  cleft  it  lies!  " 
averred  the  guide.  "  A  good  family — yes,  a  man  and  his 
wife,  staunch  upholders  of  the  Way."  They  would  soon 
find  themselves  there.  They  would  pile  the  twigs  of  pine 
and  fragrant  juniper,  spread  the  blankets,  and,  after  food 
partaken  of,  sleep  out  their  sleep  in  quietness. 

The  man  and  woman  came  to  their  door.  There  was 
a  red  glow  within,  and  a  pleasant  smell  of  roasting  chest- 
nuts disengaged  itself  upon  the  night  air.  Maurice  lifted 
Frances  Wellwood  down.  Indeed,  she  let  herself  slide 
into  his  arms  like  a  tired  child.  His  heart  thrilled  at  her 
weary  confidence.  He  carried  her  within,  while  at  the 
door  the  guide  was  exchanging  low-voiced  Provencal 
with  the  resin-gatherer  and  his  wife. 

Patrick  Wellwood,  erect  as  at  parade  of  his  regiment, 
lifted  up  his  hand  and  gave  the  Aaronic  benediction 
without  which  he  never  entered  any  house,  great  or  small. 
The  three  stayed  a  moment  in  their  talk  to  regard  him 
with  eyes  of  half-frightened  curiosity. 

Wine,  black  bread,  and  the  roasting  chestnuts  consti- 
tuted the  not  ignoble  fare  upon  which  the  little  company 
of  five  made  out  their  evening,  or  rather  early  morning 
meal.  Soon  the  place  was  warm.  Billy  Marshall  went 
foraging,  and  presently  returned  with  an  armful  of  roots 
of  vine  and  olive,  pine-cones,  and  twigs  of  dried  juniper. 
About  these  the  fire  licked  pleasantly,  spitting  and  crack- 
ling. Maurice  made  Flower-o'-the-Corn  drink  a  copious 
draught  of  the  wine,  which  was  good  and  strong,  being 
from  the  neighboring  vineyards  of  Saint  Remy. 

Then  they  spread  her  couch,  and  Bet  Marshall,  with  a 
crooning  tenderness,  covered  her  up.  She  was  asleep  in 
five  minutes.  Meantime  Maurice  sat  by  the  fire  and 
dozed,  while  Patrick  Wellwood,  vigorous  and  contro- 
versial as  if  he  had  just  awakened  from  a  dream  of  assist- 


RESIN-GATHERER'S    HUT      287 

ing  at  the  Assembly  of  Divines  at  Westminster,  ex- 
pounded the  great  doctrine  of  justification  by  faith,  with 
excursus  upon  Arius  and  Armenius,  and  deHvered  as  he 
went  many  deft  back-handers  at  certain  latitudinarian  di- 
vines within  the  pale  of  the  Kirk  of  Scotland  as  by  law  es- 
tablished— among  whom  one  Principal  Carstaires,  un- 
known to  Maurice  even  by  name,  came  in  for  more  than 
his  share  of  bufifets. 

Nevertheless,  Maurice  nodded  and  agreed,  his  mind 
far  away,  and  his  eyes  on  the  piled  shawls  in  which  his 
love  lay  muffled  up  on  her  couch  of  pine  branches.  Billy 
and  Bet  undisguisedly  snored,  while  near  the  door  the 
guide  and  the  resin-gatherers  murmured  together,  wake- 
ful as  Arabs  about  a  camp  fire. 

The  day  came  slowly.  The  little  window  of  the  hut 
changed  gradually  from  dark  slaty  black  to  ruddy  brown, 
the  color  of  a  withered  beech  leaf.  Then  it  grew  brighter 
at  the  top  till  it  resembled  the  rusty  hue  of  a  wall-flower. 

Maurice  slowly  raised  himself  at  the  end  of  one  of  Pat- 
rick Wellwood's  lengthiest  paragraphs. 

"  I  will  see  what  the  morning  promises,"  he  said.  The 
minister  nodded  a  little  unwillingly.  There  were  at  least 
other  three  points  into  which  he  had  not  yet  entered  with 
sufficient  fulness. 

Maurice  opened  the  door.  There  was  a  great  flare  of 
blood-red  sunrise  fronting  him,  with  black  figures  sil- 
houetted toweringly  against  it. 

"Good  morning,  Anglais!"  said  a  voice;  "we  have 
been  waiting  for  you.  Step  this  way.  Our  orders  are 
not  to  disturb  the  lady." 

The  house  of  the  resin-gatherer  was  surrounded  by  two 
companies  of  dragoons.  The  men  were  sitting  their  horses 
motionless  as  statues,  and  it  was  their  figures  which  the 
eyes  of  Maurice,  still  blinking  with  the  murk  and  smother 
of  the  chamber,  had  seen  ink-black  and  tall  against  the 
splashed  scarlet  of  the  dawn. 

Maurice,  his  intellect  instantly  clarified,  stepped  with- 
out. He  was  too  thorough  a  soldier  not  to  recognize  the 
hopelessness  of  resistance. 


288         FLOWER-O'-THE-CORN 

"  Do  you  wish  to  bind  me?  "  he  said,  holding  out  his 
wrists. 

The  officer  in  command  smiled. 

"  I  will  risk  taking  your  parole,  M.  le  Capitaine  de 
Raith!  "  his  captor  answered. 

Maurice  stared  at  the  words. 

"  You  know  my  name?  "  he  asked,  wonderingly. 

"  And  all  about  you  and  your  mission,"  said  the  French 
officer,  "  there  are  few  things  which  are  hidden  long  from 
M.  le  Marechal — and  what  Jie  does  not  know — 'i  faith, 
Madame  le  Marechale  is  pretty  sure  to  have  light  upon." 

"  Shall  I  call  out  my  people?  "  Maurice  went  on. 

The  officer  shrugged  his  shoulders. 

"It  is  not  my  orders,"  he  said;  "we  have  plenty  of 
time.  I  must  wait  till  the  lady  wakes.  The  Marquis  de 
Montrevel  is  a  most  considerate  man — where  ladies  are 
concerned." 


XXXIV 

YVETTE    DRINKS    FROM    HER    OWN    CUP 

THE  Marshal's  camp  remained  in  the  same  rocky 
hollow,  a  little  up  the  river  from  Millau,  where 
he  had  received  Jean  Cavalier.  The  white  house 
with  the  long  garden  in  front  was  still  his  headquarters. 
M.  de  Montrevel  smiled  to  himself  over  breakfast,  which 
he  took  alone,  as  he  thought  how  his  arm  had  reached 
from  the  slopes  of  the  Dourbie  and  the  banks  of  the  Tarn 
even  to  the  white  splintered  peaks  of  the  Alpines. 

It  was  one  of  his  foibles  to  pride  himself  (to  himself) 
upon  his  omniscience.  He  had  seen  to  it  that  Maurice 
Raith  was  well  guarded  in  the  company  of  Patrick  Well- 
wood.  Billy  and  his  wife  (Bet  having  proved  rebellious), 
had  been  removed  to  a  military  prison,  where  they  had 
leisure  to  declaim  upon  the  lost  delights  of  Keltonhill 
Fair  for  the  benefit  of  their  military  jailers — it  is  to  be 
feared  no  little  to  the  amusement  and  delight  of  these 
gentlemen. 

Sole  among  the  five  prisoners  of  the  resin-gatherers' 
hut  Flower-o'-the-Corn  found  herself  free,  and  an  hon- 
ored guest  in  the  house  of  the  Marshal.  It  was,  indeed, 
with  a  strong  sense  of  repugnance  that  she  first  en- 
countered Yvette.  But  the  wife  of  the  Marechal  de 
Montrevel  was,  after  all,  in  a  different  position — so,  at 
least,  thought  Frances  Wellwood — from  Yvette  Foy  of 
the  little  hill-village  of  La  Cavalerie,  with  nothing  to  do — 
save,  as  it  were,  to  seek  whom  she  might  devour. 

Flower-o'-the-Corn  still  believed  that  when  a  woman 
marries  she  changes  her  nature.  The  flirt  is  no  more  a 
flirt.    The  cat  with  the  claws  that  scratch  becomes  Fuss 

489 


290        FLOWER-O'-THE-CORN 

in  Boots,  and  a  fit  chaperone  for  any  young  unmarried 
female. 

It  was,  therefore,  with  some  sympathy  thatFlower-o'- 
the-Corn  received  Yvette's  explanation,  how  the  arrest 
was  not  her  husband's  act — de  Montrevel  would  gladly 
have  let  them  go — how,  indeed,  though  fully  aware  of 
their  presence,  he  had  permitted  them  to  depart  out  of 
his  own  Commanderie  of  the  High  Cevennes. 

But  now  that  they  had  been  captured  nnd  brought 
back  by  the  dragoons  of  his  enemy  de  Banville,  directed 
by  some  unknown  spy  domiciled  in  Saint  Veran,  what 
could  he  do?  They  must  wait.  There  were  grave  in- 
trigues in  progress  against  her  husband,  affecting  his 
command  and  his  very  life.  If  he  were  to  allow  prisoners 
to  escape  at  this  time,  especially  Patrick  Wellwood  and 
the  young  English  envoy,  the  results  would  be  most  se- 
rious. 

With  her  lips  to  Flower-o'-the-Corn's  ear  she  revealed, 
however,  that  it  was  possible — the  secret  was  one  which 
must  not  be  so  much  as  breathed,  as  she  valued  the  lives 
of  her  companions — that  this  dreadful  war  of  religion, 
which  had  so  long  desolated  the  country,  would  be 
brought  to  an  end,  and  that  in  the  happiest  fashion.  But, 
above  all  things,  this  must  not  be  breathed — not  to  M. 
le  Capitaine  Raitlt — not  even  to  her  father.  It  must  be  a 
secret  between  themselves.  The  Marquis  would  never 
forgive  her  if  he  knew.  And  so  on,  ending  in  feminine 
fashion  with  an  embrace.  For  Flower-o'-the-Corn  was 
by  nature  forgiving,  and  she  had  not  forgotten  how  at 
the  great  cradle-cairn  of  Saint  Veran,  where  the  Cadets 
of  the  Cross  captured  her,  Yvette  Foy  had  saved  more 
than  her  life. 

So  it  came  to  pass  that,  with  some  appearance  of  per- 
manency, the  fugitives  found  themselves  detained  in  the 
camp  of  the  Marshal  de  Montrevel,  while  Jean  Cavalier 
was  performing,  or  endeavoring  to  perform,  his  promise 
of  bringing  the  rebel  Camisards  over  to  the  side  of  the 
King. 


DRINKS  FROM  HER  OWN  CUP     291 

As  to  their  unexpected  capture  in  the  Rhone  valley, 
the  Marquis  had  indeed  allowed  them  to  get  far  beyond 
his  immediate  jurisdiction  before  arresting  them  (though 
he  might  very  well  have  done  so  in  the  Valley  of  the 
Dourbie  itself),  because  he  did  not  wish  that  the  bruit  of 
the  event  should  interfere  with  the  success  of  his  projects 
of  pacification  or  with  the  recruiting  of  the  promised 
Camisard  regiments  by  Jean  Cavalier. 

So  it  happened  that  there  came  a  new  influence,  a  gra- 
cious presence,  into  the  house  of  Nicholas  de  Baume, 
Marquis  de  Montrevel.  Wise  about  other  matters,  he  was 
singularly  and,  as  one  might  say,  shrewdly  ignorant  about 
women.  Like  all  men  who,  having  lost  their  mothers  in 
childhood,  have  known  few  good  women  since,  he  was 
under  the  belief  that  experience  of  many  women  can  take 
the  place  of  the  knowledge  of  one. 

As  to  Flower-o'-the-Corn,  she  knew  well  that  the  lives 
of  those  dearest  to  her  depended  largely  upon  the  im- 
pression she  might  make  upon  the  notable  Commander- 
in-Chief  of  the  High  Cevennes.  And  so,  thinking  no  evil, 
desiring  all  good,  she  set  a  smiling  face  to  the  difficult 
task  of  obtaining  the  release  of  Captain  Maurice  Raith 
and  her  father,  Patrick  Wellwood,  late  chaplain  in  Ard- 
millan's  regiment. 

To  accomplish  her  purpose  was  naturally  an  impos- 
sibility at  once,  but  she  speedily  obtained  a  considerable 
alleviation  of  their  condition,  and  after  a  time  she  was 
allowed  so  much  liberty  of  intercourse  with  them  that 
their  position  as  prisoners  became,  in  all  but  the  fact  of 
confinement  within  fixed  bounds,  almost  purely  nominal. 

So  far  everything  went  well. 

But  the  all-observant  eyes  of  the  Marechal  de  Mont- 
revel, as  he  came  upon  the  girls — morning,  noon,  and 
night,  as  they  sat  at  their  reading,  their  broidery,  or  in 
the  intimate  converse  of  ladies  over  the  afternoon  dish  of 
tea — distinguished  very  clearly,  all  too  clearly  indeed, 
the  clever  woman  of  the  world  from  the  innocent,  re- 
fined, and  accomplished  girl.    It  had  been  his  boast  that 


292        FLOWER-O'-THE-CORN 

he  had  chosen  the  woman  who  suited  him.  And  doubt- 
less to  a  great  extent  this  was  true.  It  was  certainly  true 
when  the  boast  was  first  made — for  Yvette's  quickness  of 
wit,  her  readiness  of  resort  and  retort,  amused  and  pleased 
the  old  gaillard,  whose  palate  was  spoiled  for  simpler 
household  dishes. 

But,  dimly  at  first,  he  began  to  see  that  life  could  not 
be  lived  as  at  a  cabaret,  amid  clinking  glasses  and  riotous 
toasts,  and  that  the  comrade  of  a  lifetime  is  not  she  who 
can  recount  the  liveliest  tales  or  engage  at  point-device 
of  words  with  a  dozen  men  at  a  time.  Only,  having  been 
a  soldier  and  a  bachelor  all  his  life,  his  sole  outlook  the 
camp,  the  barracks,  and  the  battle-field,  Nicholas  de 
Baume  had  never  had  the  opportunity  to  observe  inti- 
mately any  type  of  womanhood  higher  than  the  clever 
maid-of-honor  of  some  wandering  princess  in  partibus. 
In  comparison  with  such,  Yvette  Foy  appeared  to  him  an 
even  greater  wonder  than  she  really  was. 

There  was  something  wanting  in  his  wife,  of  which  his 
heart  took  due  cognizance.  The  sweet  and  unspoilt  nat- 
ure of  the  girl  Frances  Wellwood,  her  frank  unconscious- 
ness of  admiration,  the  reproof  to  all  freedom  of  language 
or  action  which  her  mere  coming  into  a  room  seemed  to 
enforce  with  the  authority  of  a  royal  command,  moved 
the  grim-humorous,  hard-bitten  old  warrior  like  a  glimpse 
of  a  paradise  from  which  all  his  life  he  had  been  shut  out. 

All  this  might  have  had  no  ill  effects — might  even  have 
passed  unnoticed  had  it  not  been  for  one  thing — Yvette 
Foy  had  grown  to  love  her  husband. 

Yes,  it  is  strange  to  think  upon — but  such  is  the  nature 
of  woman.  The  woman  who  had  played  with  Love  as 
a  cat  plays  with  a  mouse — she  who  could  not  let  one  man, 
however  insignificant,  slip  through  her  fingers  if  she 
could  help  it— she  who  held  that  the  end  justified  the 
means  in  carrying  out  her  husband's  plans,  now  all  sud- 
denly became  jealous  as  a  young  girl  in  the  crisis  of  her 
first  love  aflfair. 

It  was  upon  the  eve  of  the  day  on  which  Frances  had 


DRINKS  FROM  HER  OWN  CUP    293 

obtained  from  the  Marshal  the  promise  that,  subject  to 
the  King's  ratification,  he  would  liberate  his  prisoners 
immediately  on  the  conclusion  of  peace  in  the  Cevennes, 
that  Yvette  showed  the  first  symptom  of  the  coming 
trouble. 

The  condition  of  Patrick  and  Maurice  had  been  ren- 
dered as  comfortable  as  possible.  They  were  supplied 
with  food  from  the  Marshal's  own  table.  That  day 
Flower-o'-the-Corn  had  been  permitted  to  convey  the 
good  news  to  them  herself,  and  to  hold  an  hour-long  con- 
versation with  her  friends  in  the  presence  of  one  of  de 
Montrevel's  officers.  Consequently,  her  anxiety  being 
greatly  abated,  she  was  in  the  best  of  spirits  upon  her  re- 
turn, and  several  times  she  smiled  to  herself  as  she 
thought  of  the  excellent  opportunity  of  acquiring  Church 
history  and  systematic  theology  which  her  lover  was  at 
present  enjoying.  It  is  to  be  feared  that  she  did  not  give 
quite  the  same  amount  of  consideration  to  the  yet  sadder 
case  of  Billy  Marshall  and  his  wife  Bet  immured  in  the 
military  prison  and  shut  olT  from  the  prospective  delights 
of  Keltonhill  Fair. 

Anything  so  bright  and  charming  as  Frances  Wellwood 
the  old  Marshal  thought  he  had  never  seen.  While  the 
Marquis  sat  watching  her,  she  told  the  history  of  her  day 
with  spirit,  and  thanked  him  again  and  again  for  all  he 
had  done.  So  over-running  was  her  delight  that  she 
failed  to  notice  the  darkening  brows  and  unwonted  si- 
lences of  Yvette,  who,  unused  to  having  her  husband's 
eyes  fixed  on  any  but  herself,  had  begun  to  harbor  the 
darkest  thoughts  of  her  sometime  friend. 

So  accustomed  was  Yvette  to  carry  off  the  affections 
of  men,  as  it  were  vi  ct  arviis,  that  she  could  not  believe 
that  every  other  woman,  to  whom  the  power  was  given, 
would  not  do  the  same.  In  fact,  she  held  for  truth  the 
children's  proverb,  "  As  you  would  do  yourself,  so  you 
dread  your  neighbor!  " 

And  the  clear  blue  eyes  of  Flower-o'-the-Corn.  her 
rippling  hair,  ruddy  yellow  like  ripe  wheat,  her  tall  and 


294        FLOWER-O'-THE-CORN 

graceful  form,  at  once  girlish  and  full  of  the  vigor  of  the 
prime,  made  her,  in  Yvette's  eyes,  a  neighbor  to  be 
dreaded  indeed. 

At  the  time  there  was  little  said.  Only  the  gay  talk 
in  which  the  Marechale  de  Montrevel  was  wont  to  take 
a  leading  part  was  transformed  into  a  tcte-a-tctc  between 
the  old  soldier  and  his  fair  young  guest.  She  spoke  of 
the  Low  Countries,  where  the  Marquis  had  never  been, 
of  Marlborough  and  the  Prince  Eugene — whom  the  Mar- 
shal remembered  as  a  slim  young  lad,  the  laughing-stock 
of  Paris,  with  the  long  lashes  of  a  girl  and  the  overween- 
ing conceit  of  himself,  which  was  his  inheritance  as  a 
Savoyard. 

Then  the  converse  slid  ofif  into  other  channels.  The 
Marquis  looked  across  at  his  baton. 

"  Ah,"  he  sighed,  meditatively,  "  that  is  my  last  play- 
thing. I  have  gotten  it  just  in  time.  As  it  stands,  it  is  a 
marvel.  For  I  have  not  the  modern  qualifications.  My 
mother  was  an  honest  woman!  " 

Now  by  all  the  rules  Yvette  should  have  smiled,  for 
the  remark  was  quite  in  her  own  vein.  Since  it  was  ob- 
vious that  the  Marshal  meant  only  to  glance,  as  it  were, 
over  his  shoulder,  at  my  Lords  the  Duke  of  Berwick,  the 
Prince  Eugene,  the  Duke  of  Maine,  and  the  Count  of 
Toulouse. 

But  something  selective  in  the  sympathy  of  the  glance 
which  her  husband  sent  across  the  table  to  Frances  Well- 
wood  stirred  all  the  latent  bitterness  in  the  heart  of 
Yvette. 

She  rose  tempestuously,  while  Frances  (who  with  her 
fresh  English  ignorance  had  not  caught  the  allusion) 
was  still  smiling  a  little  uncertainly. 

"  I  presume,"  she  said,  turning  bitterly  to  her  husband, 
"  you  mean  that  allusion  for  me.  Well,  listen  to  this. 
Monsieur  le  Marquis.  I  am  not  your  mother,  but  you 
have  made  me  your  wife.  If  I  am  not  honest  enough  for 
you  and  your  friends,  I  am  at  least  entirely  ready  to  leave 
you  to  your  honest  women!  " 


DRINKS  FROM  HER  OWN  CUP     295 

The  outbreak  came  upon  her  two  companions  as  a  bolt 
from  the  blue.  With  all  his  boasted  experience  of  women, 
all  his  study  of  character,  the  Marquis  was  taken  as  com- 
pletely by  surprise  as  Frances  herself,  who  on  her  part 
paled  slowly  to  the  lips  as  the  sound  of  Yvette's  voice 
carried  first  consternation  and  then  fear  to  her  heart. 

She  rose  to  her  feet  uncertainly,  putting  out  her  hands 
toward  her  friend: 

"  What  is  it? — What  is  it? — What  have  I  done?"  she 
stammered,  "  Tell  me!  " 

But  by  this  time  Yvette  was  on  her  way  to  the  door. 
She  swept  Frances  out  of  her  path,  thrusting  her  from 
her  with  fierce  anger. 

"  Out  of  my  way,  serpent!  "  she  cried,  furiously;  "  do 
you  not  think  I  have  seen  it — all  your  affectation  of  in- 
nocence, your  lifted  eyelids,  your  '  Can  you  tell  me  this? ' 
'  Will  you  help  me  in  that  ? '  Oh,  I  know  you,  and  such 
as  you,  root  and  branch  I  know  you!  You  have  striven 
to  rob  me — to  steal  my  husband  from  me.  But  you  shall 
not  succeed — no — by  all  the  powers  of  evil  you  shall  not! 
For,  as  God  lives,  I  will  kill  you  both  first!  " 

And  she  broke  into  a  sort  of  dry  tearless  sobbing,  like 
a  man's  weeping,  infinitely  painful  to  hear. 

For  this  day  Yvette  Foy  was  beginning  to  reap  that 
which  she  had  sown,  and  she  was  but  little  inclined  to 
relish  the  harvest. 

The  Marquis  had  risen  also,  but  more  slowly,  his  brows 
bent,  his  lips  compressed.  He  appeared  to  be  resolving 
within  him  what  course  to  take.  He  did  not  speak,  but 
advanced  toward  his  wife,  and  led  her  out  of  the  room. 
Then  the  door  was  shut,  and  in  the  guest  chamber,  now 
strangely  altered,  Flower-o'-the-Corn  was  left  alone.  She 
sat,  white  and  much  afraid,  listening  to  the  murmur  of 
voices,  the  dull  gruff  rumble  which  was  that  of  the  man, 
and  the  keen  piercing  note  of  the  angry  woman,  which  at 
times  reached  almost  to  a  hysterical  shriek. 

To  Frances,  thus  trembling,  there  entered  all  unex- 
pectedly  a    spruce   young   officer" — Count    Edouard   de 


296        FLOWER-O'-THE-CORN 

Nayve,  a  Gascon,  of  the  hottest  blood  of  the  fiery  prov- 
ince, and  also  of  that  readiness  to  make  love  upon  all  oc- 
casions which  is  supposed  to  be  de  rigueur  in  the  junior 
ranks  of  the  French  service. 

It  chanced  that  at  the  moment  of  the  young  man's  en- 
trance the  Marquis  prevailed  upon  his  wife  to  leave  the 
ante-room  for  her  own  chamber,  whither  he  followed  her 
immediately.  The  sound  of  their  voices  sank  to  a  mur- 
mur, heard  only  at  intervals. 

Then,  eager  to  profit  by  his  supposed  opportunity,  the 
young  ofificer  poured  his  compliments  with  boyish  per- 
sistency into  the  ears  of  Flower-o'-the-Corn.  Never  was 
the  irony  of  fate  greater.  So  intent  was  Frances  on  what 
was  passing  in  the  next  room  that  she  dared  hardly  to 
breathe.  Yet,  in  order  to  distract  the  young  man's  at- 
tention from  the  sounds  which  came  through  the  parti- 
tion, she  had  perforce  to  answer,  and  even  in  some 
ghastly  fashion  to  entertain  him  with  smiling  patience. 
Then  as  the  moments  fled  away  and  neither  of  her  en- 
tertainers returned,  her  imagination  began  to  play  strange 
pranks.  She  saw  all  the  favors  she  had  so  painfully  won 
reft  from  her — the  lives  of  her  father  and  of  her  lover  in 
greater  danger  than  ever.  And  all  through  her  thought- 
less carelessness. 

Yet  after  all  what  had  she  done?  Her  conscience  be- 
ing carefully  examined,  could  charge  her  with  nothing. 
And  Yvette,  of  all  women! — Poor  Flower-o'-the-Corn, 
she  did  not  know  that  it  is  ever  thus.  None  are  so  jealous 
as  the  Yvette  Foys  who  have  sported  with  other  hearts 
till  they  believed  that  they  had  none  of  their  own. 

For  Love  maltreated,  Love  neglected,  or  Love  scorned 
always  pays  his  debt  in  kind. 


XXXV 

THE   FINE   GOLD    GROWN   DIM 

MEANWHILE,  high  up  among  the  hills  of  the 
Cevennes,  Jean  Cavalier,  with  a  sad  heart,  was 
striving  to  carry  out  his  bargain  with  the 
IViarechal  de  Montrevel.  The  young  man  had  definitely 
convinced  himself  that  no  good  could  come  of  contin- 
ued resistance.  The  advent  of  Yvette  Foy  into  his  life 
had  meant  this  to  him.  It  had  robbed  him  of  his  belief 
in  that  ready  personal  help  from  the  Highest,  which  he 
had  been  so  ready  to  invoke. 

Aforetime  he  had  served  in  the  temple.  He  walked, 
like  Aaron  the  High  Priest,  within  the  inner  shrine.  The 
Holiest  of  All  was  open  to  him,  not  once  a  year,  but  from 
day  to  day.  He,  with  his  living  eyes,  had  beheld  the  mys- 
terious light  which  awaits  the  seeing  faithful  eye,  the 
Shekinah  brooding  between  the  outstretched  wings 
above  the  mercy-seat. 

Adept  of  the  holy  things,  the  table  of  bread  was  laid 
for  him.  The  light  of  the  seven-branched  candlestick, 
the  smoking  altars  of  high  sacrifice,  were  ordinary  parts 
of  his  life.  God  was  at  his  right  hand  and  his  left.  He 
led  his  peasants  to  battle  with  an  absolute  faith  in  the 
success  of  their  cause.  Unseen,  the  God  they  worshipped, 
and  whose  prophet  was  Jean  Cavalier,  scattered  His 
lightnings  in  their  van.  They  must  conquer — the  very 
powers  of  hell  could  not  prevail.  As  on  the  Red  Sea's 
shore,  the  pillar  of  fire  was  a  wall  betwixt  the  chosen  and 
their  foes. 

But  all  was  suddenly  changed.  The  man  who  had  worn 
the  white  priest  robes  became  even  as  other  men.    Urim 

297 


298         FLOWER-O'-THE-CORN 

and  Thummin  lost  their  mystic  light.  Being  handled 
they  gave  forth  no  message.  The  ephod  was  stained  with 
common  clay.  The  phylactery  on  which  had  been  writ- 
ten, "  Thou  shalt  worship  the  Lord  thy  God  ivith  all  thy 
heart,  and  with  all  thy  soul,  and  with  all  thy  might,"  was 
torn  from  its  place  and  scrabbled  over  with  impious 
impish  blasphemies. 

Jehovah,  the  God  of  the  right  hand  and  of  the  left, 
Jehovah-nissi,  the  Lord-my-banner,  removed  Himself  be- 
yond the  farthest  stars.  The  thunder  by  which  He  had 
spoken,  the  lightning  in  which  He  made  Himself  visible, 
became  mere  noise  and  flame — these  only  and  nothing 
more. 

But  the  man's  eyes  were  opened.  It  was  not  perhaps 
well  that  it  should  be  so,  but  it  was  inevitable.  His  Eve 
— Yvette  that  is,  a  lesser,  younger  Eve,  though  not  less 
serpent-beguiled — had  given  him  of  the  fruit  of  the  tree 
of  knowledge,  and  he  had  eaten. 

So  the  man  awoke,  knowing  himself  for  naked.  As  for 
the  woman,  she  had  been  awake  of  a  long  season. 

No  more  was  his  Sabbath  a  day  of  Holy  Convocation. 
The  bells  and  pomegranates  of  his  office  no  longer 
sounded  in  Jean  Cavalier's  ears  as  he  went  into  the  place 
of  sacrifice.  Dim  grew  the  fine  gold  on  which  was  writ- 
ten, like  the  engraving  of  a  signet,  the  motto: — 

HOLINESS  UNTO  THE  LORD. 

It  was  a  mockery  upon  a  brow  which  (so  he  thought 
within  him)  ought  rather  to  have  been  defiled  with  dust 
and  ashes.  The  Leader  of  the  Host  never  walked  in  the 
green  fields  to  meditate  any  more.  The  still  small  voice 
within  him  was  silent.    Even  his  conscience  was  seared. 

Instead  of  the  soul  like  a  well-watered  garden  of  his 
friend  Spirit  Seguier,  Jean  Cavalier's  earth  was  brass,  his 
heaven  iron. 

And  it  was  in  this  hopeless  spirit  that  he  went  to  call 
the  Cevenols  to  arms  in  a  new  and  strange  cause. 


FINE    GOLD    GROWN    DIM     299 

But  the  fruit  of  the  tree  of  knowledge  had  done  its 
work.  The  man  saw  clearly — oh,  so  clearly.  Without 
glamour,  without  perspective,  pitilessly,  logically,  re- 
morselessly, all  that  he  had  been,  all  that  he  had  become, 
were  borne  in  upon  him. 

It  was  on  the  eve  of  the  Sabbath  day.  The  first  touch 
of  spring  had  come  to  the  high  lands  of  the  Causse. 
With  a  soft  southerly-breathing  wind  it  came,  that  set  the 
birds  singing  on  the  leafless  willows  and  shivering  pop- 
lars, and  sent  even  a  stray  humble-bee  or  two,  large  and 
purple,  booming  overhead — rare  wanderers  from  the  fa- 
vored plains  beneath. 

In  their  Temple  the  Camisards  of  La  Cavalerie  were 
gathered  together  to  hear  the  message  of  their  leader.  It 
was  understood  that  he  had  a  weighty  word  to  speak.  He 
had  been  seen  night  and  day  wandering  on  the  bare  scalp 
of  the  Larzac,  his  eye  fixed,  his  lips  moving,  evidently  in 
solitary  communion.  He  had  even  avoided  the  morning 
service  of  the  sanctuary  and,  being  the  man  he  was,  his 
wish  to  be  left  alone  had  been  religiously  respected. 

When  he  entered  the  village  the  people  looked  fur- 
tively at  him — the  prophet  of  God — as  if  they  expected  to 
see  his  face  mystically  suffused,  like  that  of  Moses  when 
he  came  down  from  the  Mount. 

It  was  in  this,  the  ancient  hall  of  the  Templars,  that 
the  faithful  were  gathered  to  hear  their  leader's  message. 
It  has  long  been  destroyed,  but  at  Les  Baux,  among  the 
splintered  peaks  of  the  Alpines,  an  almost  exact  replica 
may  still  be  seen.  Low,  vaulted  with  enormous  arches, 
its  plan  seemingly  taken  from  those  Byzantine  churches 
w'ith  which  the  warrior  monks  had  been  familiar  in  the 
East,  it  was  yet  a  perfect  hall  of  assembly. 

It  was  known  that  the  prophet  and  chief  would  open 
his  mind  to  the  Brethren  that  night.  They  had  marked 
his  frequent  absences.  They  had  seen  him  stray,  lonely 
and  brooding,  over  the  barren  Gausses.  God  was  surely 
wrestling  with  him.    So  they  held  in  their  simple  faith. 

They  were  the  Camisards,  the  striving,  faithful  rem- 


300        FLOWER-O'-THE-CORN 

nant — this  young  man  had  been  sent  to  them  by  God.  To 
doubt  him  was  an  impossibiHty.  There  had  never  been  a 
traitor  among  them.  As  they  had  Hved,  even  so  they  had 
died.  The  rack,  the  cord,  the  fire,  the  breaking  on  the 
wheel,  had  not  been  able  to  move  them.  Old  men  of 
seventy  and  girls  of  sixteen,  shamelessly  martyred  with 
the  tortures  of  demons,  had  died  even  as  Spirit  Seguier. 
The  Camisards  loved  Jean  Cavalier,  and  there  was  no  fear 
in  their  love. 

So  they  gathered  joyfully,  every  man  of  them  able  to 
bear  sword  or  shoot  musket.  A  remarkable  congrega- 
tion it  was.  There  in  the  gloomy  hall  of  the  Templars 
stood  tanned  weather-beaten  shepherds  of  the  Gausses, 
each  with  his  great  mantle  of  sheepskin  about  him,  clod- 
stained  cultivators  of  a  stubborn  soil,  hardy  planters  of 
vines  upon  terraces  which  they  themselves  had  hewed 
out  upon  the  Dourbie-side,  gaunt  dwellers  among  the  ul- 
timate rocks  in  that  grim  phantom  city  which  the  shep- 
herds called  Montpellier  the  Old — not  one  of  them  un- 
hardened  by  toil  and  privation,  or  with  an  eye  unhghted 
by  that  lofty  personal  religion  which,  according  to  cir- 
cumstances, makes  of  a  man  a  martyr,  a  fanatic,  or  a 
saint. 

There  were  men  there  whose  heads  might  have  been 
those  of  sculptured  confessors  of  the  doctrine  catholic  on 
some  cathedral  wall — men  who  for  any  belief  would  have 
taken  joyfully  the  spoiling  of  their  goods — men  again 
who  might  have  crouched  by  an  Indian  temple  wall  with 
the  begging-bowl  of  the  fakir. 

But  in  the  far  background  near  the  door  were  two  men 
standing  together,  dark-browed,  grim,  silent,  waiting  in 
the  shadow  of  a  pillar  ornamented  with  the  arms  of  the 
Knights  Templar,  who  alone  of  all  that  assembly  carried 
suspicion  in  their  hearts.  And  these  men  were  Abdias 
Maurel,  called  Gatinat  the  Prophet,  and — Martin  Foy, 
whose  house  of  the  Bon  Ghretien  had  been  left  unto  him 
desolate. 

There  ensued  a  silence,  the  silence  which  falls  upon 


FINE    GOLD    GROWN    DIM     301 

many  people  who  wait,  scarce  breathing  for  that  which 
shall  be, 

Jean  Cavalier  entered. 

A  sighing  rustle  followed — the  turning  of  every  head 
in  nis  direction. 

Jean  Cavalier  was  paler,  more  haggard  than  we  have 
yet  seen  him.  The  freshness  of  boyhood  was  gone  from 
his  cheeks.  Even  his  eye  no  longer  sought,  with  its  old 
clear  frankness,  the  faces  of  the  people  over  whom  he  had 
ruled  with  an  authority  almost  royal.  Yet  the  Camisards 
of  the  Larzac  found  nothing  unusual  in  this  changed  as- 
pect. The  heat  of  the  spirit  within,  the  Divine  conflicts, 
the  all-night  wrestlings  were  bound  (so  they  thought)  to 
make  their  mark  upon  any  man,  especially  upon  one  so 
young.  Their  prophet  must  not  be  one  who  clothed  him- 
self in  purple  and  fine  linen,  and  fared  sumptuously  every 
day.  Now  locusts  and  wild  honey  are  a  fine  diet,  ex- 
ceedingly suitable  for  prophets  dwelling  in  the  wilder- 
ness, but  at  best  they  cannot  be  called  fattening. 

So  the  Folk  of  the  Way  marked  their  leader  with 
special  approval  as  he  stood  before  them.  Thus,  and 
not  otherwise,  should  one  look  who  mediated  between 
the  ignorance  of  the  people,  and  the  All-Wisdom  who 
shrouded  Himself  in  flame,  thick  darkness,  and  the  voice 
of  thunderings  on  the  Mount  that  might  not  be  touched. 

Hush  !  He  is  beginning.  Pulses  beat  faster.  There 
were  wet  eyes,  tear-furrowed  cheeks — aye,  though  there 
were  no  women  in  that  throng,  but  only  men  of  age, 
arm-bearing,  good  soldiers  of  Jesus  Christ  and  the 
Church  of  the  Deliverance. 

Hush  then !  Listen  for  the  word  from  the  mouth  of 
him  that  is  able  to  declare  it.  Not  a  doubt,  not  a  fear ! 
Now,  at  last,  the  Way  shall  be  clear  before  their  feet. 
The  rough  places  shall  be  made  plain.  Fear  not  at  all, 
little  flock  on  the  ultimate  mountains,  it  is  your  Father's 
good-will  to  give  you  the  kingdom — and  who  but  this 
man  is  the  Moses  that  shall  guide  you  to  the  land  of 
promise  ? 


302         FLOWER-O'-THE-CORN 

There  was  the  opening  of  a  door  while  Jean  Cavalier 
stood  there.  A  gust  of  chilling  wind  blew  on  and  ex- 
tinguished some  of  the  candles  and  resinous  torches  in 
the  window-niches. 

"  Hush  !     He  is  beginning !  " 

Only  in  the  shadow  of  the  great  Samson-pillar,  with 
the  Templar  arms  upon  it,  Abdias  Maurel,  dit  Catinat, 
the  old  soldier  of  the  Way,  set  his  lips  more  grimly, 
thinking  that  now  at  last  his  hour  was  come. 

And  in  the  yet  deeper  shade,  like  a  tigress  robbed  of 
her  cub,  Martin  Foy  narrowed  his  eyelids  and  gritted  his 
teeth.  His  hand  was  on  his  dagger,  and  he  moved  it  to 
and  fro  in  the  sheath. 

Jean  Cavalier  lifted  his  hand,  and  drew  it  wearily 
across  his  brow.  He  dropped  it  again  and  began  to 
speak. 

"  People  of  the  Way,"  he  said,  slowly,  and  with  visible 
efifort,  "  there  are  dark  things  in  my  heart  this  night." 
(At  this  dubious  preface  Martin  Foy  looked  significantly 
across  to  Catinat.)  "  The  cup  which  God  hath  given  us 
to  drink  has  been  mingled  of  honey  and  gall.  The  honey 
ye  have  eaten.  It  hath  been  sweet  under  your  tongue. 
That  which  remains  is  gall " 

("  Aye,"  murmured  Catinat,  under  his  breath,  so  that 
only  Martin  Foy  heard  him,  "  he  says  true — the  gall  of 
bitterness  and  the  bond  of  iniquity !  ") 

The  landlord  of  the  Bon  Chretien  did  not  answer.  He 
did  not  once  remove  his  eyes  from  the  young  man's  face. 
Only  he  continued  slowly  to  draw  his  dagger  out  of  its 
sheath,  letting  it  slip  back  with  the  ominous  click  of 
perfectly-fitting  steel. 

Jean  Cavalier  went  on,  with  a  certain  heavy  and  de- 
terminate conscientiousness. 

"  I  will  speak  to  you  clearly — the  thing  which  God 
hath  given  me  the  power  to  see.  And  the  truth  is  this: 
God  hath  forgotten  to  be  gracious.  He  hath  withdrawn 
His  hand  from  us,  in  that  we  have  striven  against  the 
man  whom  He  has  made  king — even  the  Lord's 
anointed " 


FINE    GOLD    GROWN    DIM     303 


There  was  a  moment  of  stupefiec^'^Mfenishment.  Could 
this  be,  indeed,  the  Divine  Oracle  /^?"  which  they  had 
been  waiting?     An  ominous  murmur  arose. 

"  Not  against  the  King,  but  against  the  priests  we 
have  fought,  the  persecutors,  the  murderers  of  the 
Elect!" 

"  Yes — against  the  King,  and  none  other !  "  cried 
Cavalier,  raising  his  voice.  "  I  have  said  it.  So  it  is. 
Long  we  have  shut  our  eyes.  Long  we  have  striven 
against  those  set  in  authority  over  us  and  have  not  re- 
pented. So  God  hath  departed  from  us.  From  me  I 
know  that  He  has  set  Himself  afar  off." 

("  That  may  well  be !  "  muttered  Catinat,  very  grimly. 
"  He  will  set  Himself  yet  farther  from  every  sinner.") 

"  Hearken,"  Cavalier  went  on,  while  a  kind  of  stupe- 
fied silence  filled  the  hall,  and  for  very  fear  no  man 
communed  with  his  neighbor,  "  I  did  not  come  hither 
to  tell  you  this  alone.  I  have  had  a  message  from  the 
King.  You  declare  with  the  lips  that  you  are  loyal — 
well,  let  us  prove  whether  this  be  so  or  no.  His  Majesty 
King  Louis  of  France " 

"  God  send  both  your  souls  to  deepest  hell !  "  the  deep 
voice  of  Catinat  boomed  through  the  hall  of  the  Tem- 
plars like  the  bittern  over  the  marshes.  And  from  its 
sheath  the  click  of  Martin  Foy's  dagger  said  a  crisp 
"  Amen  "  ! 

"  Nay,"  said  Cavalier,  "  his  is  not  the  fault,  but  that 
of  his  evil  councillors.  To-day  the  King  offers  us 
terms — the  ending  of  the  wars,  the  ceasing  of  the  perse- 
cution, the  free  exercise  of  our  religion — that  is,  in  pri- 
vate !  " 

"  And  in  return  ?  "  cried  Catinat,  the  bitterness  of  his 
opposition  masked,  for  the  moment,  by  a  smiling  coun- 
tenance. 

Cavalier  blushed  a  vivid  crimson. 

"  In  return,"  he  said  slowly,  as  a  child  says  a  lesson  it 
has  imperfectly  learned,  "  we  of  the  Cevennes  are  to  do 
as  other  portions  of  his  dominions  have  done.     We  are 


304        FLOWER-O'-THE-CORN 

to  raise  one  or  more  regiments  of  young  men  in  order 
to  fight  the  King's  battles  in  foreign  parts.  For  that 
he  will  grant  us  peace.  The  conditions  are  not  hard. 
This  is  the  message  I  have  from  Louis,  King  of  France. 
This  is  the  word  that  hath  lain  heavy  on  my  heart,  which 
I  have  now  declared  to  you.  Brethren  of  the  Way,  what 
answer  shall  I  give  ?  " 

With  one  fierce  rush  forward,  Catinat  was  on  the  plat- 
form. Martin  Foy  made  a  slight  movement  as  if  to 
follow  him,  but  finally  withdrew  himself  deeper  into  the 
shadow  of  the  great  pillar,  watching  out  of  the  gloom 
with  eyes  in  which  the  red  light  gleamed  and  danced. 

"  And  this,"  the  Prophet  Catinat  cried,  "  is  the  end ! 
This  is  the  sword  that  was  sharpened,  the  sword  of  the 
Lord  and  of  Gideon !  Lo !  It  is  whetted — not  to  de- 
fend the  faith,  but  to  fight  the  battles  of  the  son  of  per- 
dition, of  the  husband  of  Scarron's  widow.  Against  our 
own  brethren,  the  Cevenols  must  draw  the  sword — and 
at  the  bidding  of  a  traitor,  a  renegade,  an  officer  of  the 
King,  whose  commission  is  in  his  pocket  at  this  mo- 
ment!  " 

At  the  challenge  direct  Jean  Cavalier  came  forward. 
He  was  more  calm  than  he  had  been  when  he  began. 
There  was  almost  a  smile  on  his  face,  the  fighting  smile 
with  which  (his  men  said)  he  was  wont  to  enter  battle. 
He  undid  the  belt  and  sword  with  which  the  leaders  of 
the  Camisards  had  solemnly  invested  him,  and  flung  the 
weight  of  iron  and  embossed  leather  on  the  table  with  a 
clang. 

"  There,"  he  cried,  "  freely  I  give  up  that  command 
which  I  did  not  ask.  I  will  no  longer  be  your  leader. 
I  am  only  one  of  yourselves.  I  have  faithfully  delivered 
my  message.  I  see  that  for  us  there  is  no  help  save  in 
yielding  ourselves  to  the  arm  of  flesh — even  as  Jeremiah 
advised  when  the  Assyrian  came  down  from  the  north, 
a  strong  nation  and  a  cruel,  pressing  upon  Israel  on 
every  side.  It  is  marvellous  in  our  eyes,  but  it  is  the 
Lord's  doing  for  all  that.     The  princes  of  the  people 


FINE    GOLD    GROWN    DIM     305 

cried  for  help  from  Egypt.  But  the  prophet  knew  Egypt 
to  be  but  a  bruised  reed.  And  so  say  I  of  England  and 
the  allies.  They  will  not  help  us.  After  all,  are  we  not 
Frenchmen,  and  no  rebels?  We  rose  to  defend  our 
rights.  These  will  now  be  granted  to  us,  for  the  King 
has  been  misled  concerning  us.  Wicked  men  had  been 
about  him,  blinding  him.  Evil  women  have  spoken  to 
our  hurt.  Who,  therefore,  will  go  out  with  me  this  day 
to  fight  the  battles  of  the  King  of  France  ?  " 

There  was  a  dead  silence.  Even  Catinat  did  not 
answer.  He  stood  back,  like  one  who  gives  his  enemy 
a  long  rope  and  every  advantage.  Truly  Catinat  knew 
that  the  Angel  of  Jean  Cavalier  had  departed  from  him. 

Yet  in  one  thing  he  had  underrated  the  influence  of 
his  adversary.  There  were  of  the  younger  men  not  a 
few  to  whom  Jean  Cavalier  was  still  as  a  god,  men  who 
had  grown  weary  of  the  long  confinement  among  their 
own  bleak  hills,  especially  since  the  raids  and  forays  had 
been  given  up.  These  had  not  the  older  men's  religious 
enthusiasms.  They  loved  not  preachings,  or  long  pray- 
ings, and  their  hearts  leaped  up  at  the  mere  thought  of 
the  long  t-r-r-r-r  of  the  kettle-drum  and  the  stirring 
notes  of  the  trumpet.  Some  of  these  had  made  it  their 
custom  to  steal  out  to  the  base  of  the  old  cradle  stafif  of 
Saint  Veran,  that  they  might  listen  to  the  merry  march- 
ing strains  which  came  up  from  the  valley,  as  guards 
were  set  for  the  night,  or  the  dragoon  regiments  rode 
home  two  and  two  along  the  Dourbie-side,  jingUng 
bridles  and  clinking  scabbards  in  the  pride  of  their  ac- 
coutrement. 

For  very  envy,  they  might  indeed  take  a  shot  at  the 
soldiers  from  behind  a  bowlder,  or  with  the  musket- 
barrel  laid  along  a  low  rock  barrier,  but  there  was  not 
a  man  who  would  not  rather  have  taken  the  risk  of 
marching  with  the  troops  (with  the  added  certainty  of 
hell-firc  afterward),  than  have  gone  back  to  the  same  old 
round  of  duty  and  prayer  and  preaching,  and  preaching 
and  prayer  and  duty,  in  La  Cavalerie  upon  the  Causse 
of  Larzac. 


3o6 


FLOWER-O'-THE-CORN 


So  all  shamefaced  and  sullen,  but  in  the  main  deter- 
minedly, one  here  and  another  there  stood  up  and  gave 
in  his  unpopular  adhesion.  "  I  will  come  with  you,  Jean 
Cavalier!  "  or  "  I  will  stand  by  you,  Jean  CavaUer!  " 

But  they  were  few.  The  Camisards  were  mostly  not 
young  men.  The  young  lay  under  green  mounds  here 
and  there  on  both  sides  of  the  bare  wind-swept  Cevennes. 
Cavalier's  recruits  numbered  perhaps  a  dozen  in  all,  and 
Catinat  waited.  He  would  take  no  advantage.  Jean 
Cavalier  had  ousted  him  fairly  at  the  first.  So  not  un- 
fairly would  he  fight  for  the  mastery,  now  that  the  hour 
of  his  triumph  was  so  near. 

"  And  now,  Brethren  of  the  Way,"  cried  Catinat,  after 
a  long  pause,  during  which  every  man  looked  askance 
at  his  neighbor,  "  ye  have  heard  this  man  pervert  judg- 
ment with  words,  what  say  ye?  Ye  have  heard  these 
also — young  men  without  wisdom,  in  whom  the  weight 
of  the  Word  is  not.  Will  ye  enrol  your  names  with 
theirs  and  go  forth  to  fight  the  battles  of  King  Louis 
against  our  brethren — men  of  one  faith  with  us,  whose 
ministers  have  spoken  the  Gospel  in  our  ears,  whose 
messengers  have  brought  munitions  of  wars  into  this 
very  place?  " 

Cavalier  came  forward  as  if  he  would  have  interrupted, 
but  Catinat  waved  him  aside. 

"  My  turn !  "  he  cried ;  "  ye  have  spoken  and  may 
again.  But  now  the  word  is  with  me !  Yet  let  us  de- 
mand of  him,  Brethren  of  the  Way,  wherefore  he  has 
done  this.  It  is  our  right  to  know.  It  is  not  a  message 
from  God.  It  is  no  sign  that  he  hath  seen.  What  then  ? 
I  can  tell  you,  brethren.  His  holy  revelation  is  the 
promise  of  the  King  that  Jean  Cavalier  should  have  the 
command  of  as  many  men  as  he  can  raise  among  us. 
The  blessed  sign  is  the  commission  given  him  by  our 
enemy  and  persecutor,  the  Marquis  de  Montrevel,  which 
he  carries  in  his  pocket.  Let  him  deny  it  if  he  can.  I 
have  spoken ! " 

By  this  time  the  Camisards  were  for  the  most  part 


FINE    GOLD    GROWN    DIM     307 

upon  their  feet,  and  the  old  hall  of  the  Templars,  already 
obscured  with  the  reek  and  flare  of  torches  and  the  dim 
winking  of  guttering  candles,  was  one  confused  tumult 
of  angry  men  and  fierce  shoutings. 

And  in  the  midst  of  the  turmoil  one  man,  dark  of  face 
and  with  gray  hair  that  drooped  in  a  heavy  fell  over  his 
brow,  who  had  been  standing  in  the  shadow  of  the  great 
pillar  by  the  door,  moved  a  little  nearer  the  platform. 

"  For  the  last  time  I  appeal  to  you,  brethren,"  cried 
Cavalier;  "listen  to  me.  Have  I  ever  led  you  wrong? 
Have  I  ever  asked  aught  from  you  for  myself?  " 

"  No,  you  have  asked  it  rather  of  the  King's  High 
Majesty,"  retorted  Catinat ;  "  for  us,  we  ask  nothing  from 
Louis  of  Bourbon  but  what  he  has  given  our  fathers  and 
our  brothers — the  gallows  and  the  rack.  Take  your 
commission  and  go.  You  are  not  of  us !  Go  forth, 
traitor  and  spy !  " 

And  through  the  hall  and  up  from  the  crowded  mass 
of  Camisards  which  surged  beneath  came  the  hoarse 
threatening  murmur,  "  He  is  not  of  us — he  is  not  of  us !  " 

"  One  day  you  shall  know  I  have  spoken  truth !  "  cried 
Cavalier,  above  the  tumult ;  "  when  your  valleys  are 
swept  with  the  fire  and  the  sword — in  that  day  you  will 
acknowledge  that  I  have  spoken  among  you  the  word 
of  truth  and  soberness." 

"  Go — go  !  "  they  cried,  hoarsely  ;  "  go  and  take  your 
half-score  of  branded  traitors  with  you!  Perhaps  you 
yourself  will  come  back  in  the  King's  uniform  to  burn 
our  houses  and  drag  us  to  the  rack !  " 

"  You  do  me  wrong,"  said  Cavalier,  "  grievous  wrong! 
I  have  never  sought  aught  but  your  good.  For  the  last 
time  hearken  ye.  Men  of  the  Way,  if  any  have  a  quarrel 
against  me,  let  him  stand  forth  and  declare  it,  face  to 
face.  I  stand  here  among  you  defenceless.  If  I  have 
deceived  any — done  evil  to  any,  here  is  my  breast — let 
him  strike  and  spare  not !  " 

Then  the  man  wnth  the  matted  mass  of  hair,  falling 
badger-gray  and  dank  over  his  eyes,  tossed  it  aside  that 


3o8         FLOWER-O'-THE-CORN 

he  might  see  the  better,  as  he  leaped  on  the  platform, 
with  the  muttering  growl  of  a  wild  beast. 

"  /  am  here !  "  he  shouted.  A  dagger  flashed  a  mo- 
ment in  the  smoky  glare. 

There  was  a  great  crying — a  frightened  surge  of  men. 
Catinat  stepped  forward  and  received  in  his  arms  the 
body  of  Jean  Cavalier.  The  dagger  was  deep  sunk  in 
his  shoulder. 

His  assailant  plucked  it  out  again  by  main  force. 

"  He  hath  stolen  my  daughter — sunk  her  soul  into 
the  lowest  hell !  "  cried  Martin  Foy,  holding  the  knife 
aloft.  "  It  was  for  her  sake  that  he  betrayed  the  Lord. 
Have  I  done  right,  Brethren  of  the  Way?" 

And  with  a  mighty  surging  roar,  hoarse  as  the  anger 
of  the  sea  when  the  breakers  fall  on  the  pebbles,  came 
back  the  answer,  "  Right  thou  hast  done,  Martin  Foy! " 


XXXVI 

GATHERING    UP  THE    FRAGMENTS 

YET  was  not  Jean  Cavalier  dead,  nor  yet  to  the 
common  eye  Yvette  Foy  dishonored.  But 
since  Martin  Foy  thought  so,  the  popular  voice 
mattered  singularly  little. 

Yet  there  was,  for  the  time  being,  an  end  to  the  Mar- 
shal's well-laid  plans  for  the  pacification  of  the  Cevennes. 
Cavalier  was  laid  by  the  heels,  and  the  raising  of  the 
Camisard  regiments  for  the  King's  foreign  service,  which 
were  to  drain  off  the  rebellious  elements,  seemed  now 
farther  off  than  ever. 

In  his  own  hired  house,  Catinat  tended  his  sometime 
rival,  with  the  same  care,  wherewith  a  prison  surgeon 
might  nurse  and  cosset  a  wounded  malefactor  for  the 
gallows.  His  wound,  if  not  dangerous,  was  undoubtedly 
severe.  Time  was  needed,  a  long  time,  and  Catinat 
saw  to  it  that  recovery  was  not  hastened.  In  the  present 
state  of  affairs  he  could  not  afford  to  lose  sight  of  such 
a  charge. 

And  Cavalier,  now  tossing  in  fever,  now  shaking  like 
a  leaf  with  ague  contracted  in  nights  of  exposure,  saw 
visions  and  dreamed  dreams.  As  often  as  he  closed  his 
eyes  he  rode  out  upon  immeasurable  leagues  of  billowy 
nothingness,  while  before  him  fled,  like  a  tempting  fiend, 
smiling  subtly,  the  shade  of  the  woman  whom  for  certain 
fevered  months  he  had  loved,  or  seemed  to  love.  Then, 
in  an  instant,  all  was  dissolved.  He  came  out  upon  the 
face  of  Very  God !  The  clouds  that  had  sustained  him 
vanished  at  the  breath  of  His  nostrils,  and  Cavalier  felt 

309 


3 1  o        FLOWER-O'-THE-CORN 

himself  falling,  falling,  spinning  like  a  top,  faster — faster 
— ever  faster — down — down — into  the  Pit! 

He  woke  with  a  shriek,  and  there,  his  lips  grave  and 
the  eyes  inexorable  as  the  Law,  stood  Catinat,  bending 
over  him,  grimly  tender,  in  his  hand  the  tisane  of  the 
moment,  or  mayhap  a  poultice  of  herbs  for  the  yet  green 
wound. 

"  The  soul  that  sinneth,  it  shall  die,  saith  the  Lord," 
was  the  awakening  word  of  the  faithful  Catinat  to  his 
charge ;  "  nevertheless,  take  thy  tisane — it  may  be  that 
by  humiliation  and  prayer  thine  iniquity  shall  not  be 
unto  death." 

"  It  is  unto  death,"  responded  Jean  Cavalier,  turning 
his  face  to  the  wall. 

The  nurse  said  no  other  word,  nor  ofifered  any  further 
cheering  or  hopeful  message.  But  as  he  went  out  of 
the  door  he  muttered,  "  Hast  thou  children — then  bow 
down  their  neck  from  their  youth." 

Then  he  cast  one  look  back  upon  the  young  man  as 
he  lay  straight  and  slender  on  the  bed.  "  After  all,  who 
knows?"  Catinat  would  murmur;  "he  is  but  a  boy. 
'  Wine  and  women  make  even  men  of  understanding  to 
fall  away,'  saith  the  wise  men,  even  Jesus,  the  son 
of  Sirach.  And  as  it  is  found  in  the  same  author, 
*  Who  shall  touch  pitch  and  not  be  defiled  ?  '  More- 
over, let  it  be  remembered  that  he  is  but  a  boy.  I 
will  see  to  it  that  he  doth  not  recover  too  quickly. 
For  a  fiame  once  kindled  among  young  men  is  not 
easily  put  out." 

Catinat  had  gone  many  times  to  the  house  of  Martin 
Foy,  but  his  seeking  for  his  ancient  friend  was  in  vain. 
With  the  scene  in  the  old  hall  of  the  Templars  and  the 
approbation  of  his  bloody  vengeance  by  his  Brethren  of 
the  Way,  he  had  vanished.  He  was  seen  no  more  in  La 
Cavalerie.  The  Bon  Chretien  itself  was  left  to  the  care 
of  servants  and  hostellers,  who  camped  upon  Yvette's 
embroidered  tapestries,  torn  from  the  wall,  and  left  the 
print  of  their  tankards  upon  the  white  damask,  fine  as 


GATHERING  THE  FRAGMENTS  311 

that  of  a  queen,  with  which  she  had  been  dehghted  to 
plenish  her  armoircs. 

As  for  Martin  Foy,  he  was  elsewhere,  not  self-slain, 
as  many  of  the  people  thought.  His  time  was  not  yet. 
The  man's  Calvinism  had  taken  the  austere  Old  Testa- 
ment form,  mixed,  too,  with  some  of  that  latent  insanity 
which  never  marches  very  far  from  such  as  he.  "  An 
eye  for  an  eye  and  a  tooth  for  a  tooth,"  became  his 
motto.  Nor  did  he  greatly  care  to  distinguish  whose 
eye  and  tooth  were  to  square  the  account. 

But  now  among  the  Camisards  of  La  Cavalerie  there 
was  no  leader  but  Catinat.  The  accepted  policy  was  the 
one  of  resistance  to  the  uttermost,  a  counsel  of  despair 
indeed.  But  in  the  bitter  disappointment  of  their  mood 
at  the  failure  of  their  heaven-born  leader,  nothing  else 
had  any  chance  of  being  listened  to.  The  Camisard 
country  became  irreclaimable.  Dumbly  and  determi- 
nately  the  land  lay  awaiting  its  fate — the  charger's  tram- 
pling hooves,  the  blazing  roof-tree,  the  falling  rafter,  the 
half-company  with  its  muskets  all  pointed  at  the  heart 
of  one  honest  man  (whose  only  fault  was  that  he  thought 
dififerently  about  religion  from  King  Louis  and  his  mis- 
tress), the  orphan's  cry  of  affright,  the  widow's  inap- 
peasable  weeping. 

Cavalier  had  seen  truly.  His  eyes  were  opened,  in- 
deed, and  at  one  glance  he  spied  out  the  nakedness,  not 
only  of  himself,  but  of  the  land. 

Even  on  his  sick-bed,  and  in  spite  of  all  the  care  of 
Catinat,  Cavalier  received  tokens  that  there  were  in  the 
camp  of  the  Camisards  others  who  had  been  impressed 
with  the  truth  of  his  words — who,  spite  of  the  power  of 
numbers  and  the  strength  of  prejudices,  thought  as  he 
thought.  Notes  fluttered  in  at  the  opened  window  as 
soon  as  he  was  able  to  sit  up  for  an  hour,  and  Catinat 
was  safely  upon  his  rounds.  Initials  denoted  names. 
Numbers  were  used  for  secrecy's  sake.  Young  men 
clambered  to  the  edge  of  the  balcony  at  dead  of  night 
to  signify  their  adhesion  to  the  chief  who  had,  in  their 


3 1 2        FLOWER-O'-THE-CORN 

idea,  sacrificed  his  life  in  order  to  speak  the  truth  in  the 
ears  of  an  unwilling  people. 

All  were  not  true  Camisards  of  the  Forlorn  Hope  even 
in  La  Cavalerie. 


Beneath,  in  the  valley  of  the  Tarn,  Marshal  the  Mar- 
quis de  Montrevel  had  an  anxious  time.  Swift  and 
secret  messengers  brought  him  news  of  the  fate  which 
had  befallen  Jean  Cavalier.  A  fanatic  Camisard  had 
smitten  him — that  is  what  they  said — knowing  better 
than  to  reveal  the  name  of  the  assassin — one  driven  mad 
by  the  thought  of  surrendering  to  the  King.  Well,  that 
is  bad  enough,  thought  the  Marshal.  But  there  have 
been  fanatics  before,  and  the  world  has  gone  forward 
in  spite  of  fanatics  and  fanaticism. 

Perhaps  the  network  of  wrinkles  about  his  eyes  would 
have  grown  a  little  plainer,  the  furrow  dinted  between 
his  brows  become  somewhat  deeper  cleft,  if  he  had 
known  that  the  man  who  had  gone  out  with  the  dagger 
red  from  the  ancient  hall  of  the  Templerie  was  Martin 
Foy,  his  own  father-in-law. 

But  it  was  his  doom  that  he  should  not  know.  And 
without  such  ignorances  as  these  even  Fate  herself — to 
say  nothing  of  the  historian — could  not  do  her  perfect 
work. 

There  were,  moreover,  other  things  on  the  old  sol- 
dier's mind.  His  wife  and  her  friend,  Flower-o'-the- 
Corn,  with  the  various  adjuncts  and  dependencies  of  the 
latter,  furnished  him  with  enough  and  to  spare  of 
anxiety  for  any  one  man. 

The  half-nervous  crisis  which  had  shaken  Yvette 
passed  in  time,  under  the  influence  of  the  Marshal's  pro- 
testations and  exculpations,  perfectly  legitimate  and 
unimpeachable  as  these  were.  But,  nevertheless,  some- 
thing was  left  behind,  a  pregnant  residuum  of  doubt  and 
suspicion.  Flower-o'-the-Corn,  the  innocent  cause  of 
all,  was  conscious  of  it  when  her  hostess  came  into  her 


GATHERING  THE  FRAGMENTS  313 

room  in  the  morning  and  when  she  went  out  of  it  at 
night.  The  Marshal,  walking  softly  all  his  days,  avoid- 
ing delicately  every  possible  cause  of  ofifence,  was  con- 
scious of  it  as  he  left  his  military  subordinates  and 
entered  his  own  house.  The  prisoners,  Maurice  and 
Patrick  Wellwood,  separated  by  bolts  and  bars  and  all 
the  formalities  of  opening  and  shutthig  great  doors  that 
creaked,  with  mighty  keys  which  clanked  and  jangled, 
were  made  conscious  of  the  change  by  the  lack  of  many 
a  little  office  of  kindness  and  attention  which  in  time  past 
they  had  received  as  the  proteges,  in  some  wise,  of 
Madame  la  Marechale. 

But,  in  spite  of  all,  Flower-o'-the-Corn  kept  her  place 
in  the  house  of  the  Marquis  de  Montrevel.  She  had 
had  many  battles  with  herself  before  she  resolved  upon 
this  course.  But  Frances  Wellwood  was  no  spoilt  child. 
She  had  seen  many  lands,  and,  with  a  heart  that  re- 
mained virgin,  many  men  as  well.  She  had  her  father 
to  think  about — nay  (of  new),  her  lover  also.  She  could 
serve  these  two  but  ill  if  she  shared  their  prison-cell,  and 
any  consideration  which  they  received  on  account  of 
her  would  at  once  pass,  if  it  were  openly  made  manifest 
that  she  had  wholly  lost  the  favor  of  the  Marshal  and 
his  wife. 

But  there  was  another  black  rider  who  sat  not  less 
persistently,  though,  on  the  whole,  less  heavily  behind 
the  doughty  veteran.  From  his  friends  in  Paris  and  at 
Versailles  he  heard  that  the  days  of  his  commandership 
in  the  Cevennes  were  numbered,  and  that  even  the  name 
of  his  successor  was  canvassed  and  approved. 

Verily,  the  days  were  not  gay  at  Millau  upon  the  Tarn, 
and  especially  so  to  Yvette,  who  in  time  past  had  eaten 
of  the  fruit  forbidden,  and  in  whose  mouth  the  after- 
taste was  bitter. 

Now  nothing  is  so  trying  to  the  temper  of  even  a  good 
woman  as  to  know  herself  in  the  wrong,  and  to  be  unable 
to  confess  it.  But  that  which  chiefly  hurt  the  pride  of 
Yvette  was  that  she  had  reigned  as  Vashti  in  the  palace 


3 1 4        FLO  WER-O'-THE-CORN 

of  Ahasuerus.  And  lo !  now  at  her  gate  she  saw  one 
Esther — sweeter,  fairer,  with  the  flower  of  her  youth  and 
innocency  yet  upon  her.  And  not  at  her  gate  alone, 
but  in  her  very  house,  in  the  daily  sight  of  Ahasuerus  her 
king,  a  man  who  had  seen  much,  and  who  (she  knew) 
scrupled  not  to  take  the  thing  his  heart  desired. 

There  is,  indeed,  no  saying  to  what  the  bitter  dark  of 
Yvette's  mind  might  have  conducted  her,  but  for  an 
incident  which  befell  one  gray  and  chillish  afternoon  in 
late  March,  as  she  walked  solitary  by  the  towers  of  the 
ancient  military  prison. 

Upon  a  broad  terrace,  which  gave  a  view  of  the  still 
blue  breadths  of  the  Tarn,  and  of  the  pleasure  boats 
which  (it  was  Sunday  afternoon)  punted  out  in  a  casual 
manner  upon  the  bosom  of  the  water,  or  deposited  too 
early  picnics  on  the  sward  of  one  of  its  many  islands, 
Madame  la  Marechale  was  walking  alone. 

From  beneath  there  came  the  murmur  of  voices.  She 
had  acompanied  Frances  Wellwood,  who  had  come  to 
visit  her  father.  Now  she  awaited  with  a  curious  kind 
of  impatience  her  exit.  Yvette  hated  every  moment 
she  spent  with  Flower-o'-the-Corn,  yet  for  all  that  she 
was  loath  to  let  the  girl  out  of  her  sight.  It  was  a 
supremely  discomfortable  position  for  all  concerned — 
though,  perhaps,  of  those  interested  it  is  the  Marquis 
who  deserves  the  first  place  in  our  commiseration,  and 
that  because  he  had  perforce  to  take  his  wife's  temper 
and  her  tongue  to  bed  with  him. 

But  as  of  old  time  there  came  a  voice  out  of  the  bush 
to  one  Esdras,  priest  and  reader  of  the  law,  so  now  to  the 
wife  of  the  Marshal  de  Montrevel  there  came  one  which 
called  her  by  the  name  that  had  once  been  hers. 

"  Yvette  Foy!     Yvette  Foy!  " 

It  was  a  strange  voice,  thick  and  with  a  foreign  timbre, 
but  there  was  no  mistake.  Very  clearly  someone  called 
her  name.  And  Yvette,  shrugging  her  pretty  shoulder 
pettishly,  turned  to  look. 

But  only  the  gray  walls  of  the  prison  stretched  away, 


GATHERING  THE  FRAGMENTS  315 

rood  after  solid  rood  of  masonry.  The  embrasures  from 
which  the  defenders  had  once  poured  the  molten  lead  on 
the  helmets  of  the  assailants,  and  which  now  more  peace- 
fully disposed  of  the  surplus  rainfall,  grinned  vacantly 
down  upon  her  from  high  overhead. 

There  was  no  one  there.  Perhaps  there  was  the 
gleam  of  a  pike  as  a  sentry,  having  stooped  to  take  a 
humanizing  look  at  the  pretty  young  wife  of  the  Gen- 
eral, resumed  his  perpendicular  strut  upon  the  ramparts, 
but  this  alone  gave  movement  to  the  middle  distance. 

"  Yvette  Foy!     Yrcttc  Foy!  " 

It  was  a  muffled  voice,  but  quite  unmistakable.  The 
girl  hurried  to  the  verge  of  the  terrace  walk,  and  looked 
over.  An  ox-wagon  crawled  laboriously  by,  the  animals 
looking  little  larger  than  flies  on  the  mistral-parched 
whiteness  of  the  roadway. 

"  Yvette  Foy!     Yvette  Foy!" 

This  time,  of  a  surety,  the  voice  was  plainly  behind  her. 
She  turned  quickly,  and  out  of  one  of  the  arrow-slits  of 
the  fortress,  at  about  the  height  of  her  head,  appeared 
an  old  rag  of  a  red  color,  vehemently  agitated. 

She  went  toward  it,  with  surprise  and  some  anger  that 
a  prisoner  should  dare  to  call  her  name  aloud. 

"  Who  are  you?  "  she  answered,  putting  the  question 
imperiously. 

"  Be  you  Mistress  Yvette  Foy?"  said  a  voice  within, 
still  in  the  same  strangely  thickened  foreign  accent. 

"  I  am  the  wife  of  the  Marshal  de  Montrevel,"  the  girl 
said.     "  My  name  was  once  Yvette  Foy !  " 

"And  not  so  long  ago,  I  am  thinking!"  came  the 
answer,  "  and  it  will  be  that  you  will  have  forgotten  Bet, 
the  gypsy's  wife,  who  came  with  the  young  English  Cap- 
tain to  La  Cavalerie?  " 

"  I  have  not  forgotten,"  said  Yvette,  who,  to  do  her 
justice,  was  never  too  proud  to  learn,  and  never  turned 
her  back  on  a  friend  without  due  cause. 

"  Then  here  is  Bet,  and  also  Billy  her  man,  that  would 
provoke  the  living  God  Himself  with  his  crying  about 


3 1 6        FLO  WER-O'-THE-CORN 

Keltonhill  Fair,"  the  voice  went  on.  "  I  have  a  message 
for  you,  pretty  mistress,  could  I  but  see  you  for  a  mo- 
ment !  " 

"  Speak,"  said  Yvette,  looking  round  her  quickly, 
"  there  is  no  one  without !  " 

"  No,  but  there  are  plenty  within  here,"  answered  the 
voice ;  "  the  garbage  of  the  heavens  above  and  of  the 
earth  beneath — one  might  also  say  the  waters  under  the 
earth,  save  that  most  of  these  heathens  have  not  looked 
upon  honest  water  for  a  life-time." 

"  Haste  you,"  said  Yvette,  "  I  must  go.  What  is  it 
that  you  want  with  me?  " 

"  To  speak  with  you,  fair  lady !  " 

"Speak,  then,"  said  the  girl,  angrily;  "I  have  no 
secrets  with  a  gypsy  wife  !  " 

"  So  ?  "  said  the  voice,  with  an  interrogative  inflection ; 
"  not  as  to  the  nature  and  uses  of  a  certain  plant — thick 
with  hairy  leaves  and  carrying  a  purple  flower?  Not 
such  as  concern " 

"  Hush,"  said  Yvette,  "  what  do  you  want  with  me 
nowf  " 

"  To  speak  to  you  in  private,  lady,"  said  the  voice.  "  I 
see  you  walk  alone — unhappy.  There  is  sand  in  the 
axle  where  there  should  be  grease.  The  gypsy  wife 
knows;  will  you  speak  with  her?  She  counselled  ye 
well  before  in  the  matter  of " 

"  I  will  come !  Be  content !  "  said  Yvette,  walking 
toward  the  main  entrance. 


In  ten  minutes  the  gypsy  wife,  Bet,  and  the  wife  of 
M.  le  Marechal  de  Montrevel  were  speaking  face  to  face. 
All  women  are  at  heart  one  in  trouble.  Prejudice  or 
dislike  may  prevent  them  from  putting  themselves  in 
another's  place,  but  the  power  is  there. 

A  baby  to  hold,  a  crying  child,  a  prodigal  erring  son, 
that  sharp  causeless  weeping  which  they  alone  know, 
yonder  silence  of  a  broken  heart,  these  graying  hairs 


GATHERING  THE  FRAGMENTS   317 

that  thicken  about  the  temples  when  a  heart  is  being 
broken — these  constitute  the  true  freemasonry  of 
women.  They  need  no  clubs  after  a  baby  is  born  to 
them.  All  the  world  is  their  club,  and  to  more  than 
half  the  human  race  the  sight  of  a  child  smiling  from 
a  go-cart,  or  weeping  over  a  broken  toy,  is  more  moving 
than  the  wrack  of  empires  and  all  the  sad  tales  ever  told 
of  the  deaths  of  kings. 

Only  the  sexless  or  the  childless  of  them,  or  those 
very  few  who  have  known  no  pleasure  either  in  sex  or 
child,  yearn  for  the  privileges  of  mankind.  The  world 
is,  for  the  most  part  of  women,  one  vast  privilege.  For 
their  very  pains  are  privileges,  bringing  forth  that  Divine 
sympathy  which  covers  a  multitude  of  sins. 

So  this  dainty  Yvette,  with  her  hands  delicate-fingered, 
her  skin  satin-soft,  her  hair  tight-ringleted  like  a  boy's, 
and  eyes  dark  with  slumberous  fires,  found  herself  at 
one  step  very  near  to  Bet  Marshall,  of  the  grim  gypsy 
race  of  the  Faas,  in  whose  veins  ran  the  blackest  blood 
of  Egypt,  and  perhaps  of  those  yet  ancienter  kings  whom 
the  Pharaohs  supplanted. 

Bet  Marshall,  with  her  head  of  badger-gray,  bristled 
upper  lip,  that  keen  look  of  cunning  which  a  thousand 
perils  meanly  surmounted  never  fail  to  give,  sat  and 
talked  apart  with  Madame  la  Marechale  in  her  mantle 
of  furs. 

And  their  topic  was  the  unending  one  of  women — 
the  love  of  men,  how  to  win  and  how  to  keep.  Nor 
spite  of  stray  dissent,  will  this  ever  greatly  vary.  All 
the  rest  is  mere  rogue-elephant  roaring  in  the  wilderness 
— the  complaint  of  the  filching  crow  outcast  from  her 
own  particular  rookery. 

The  gypsy  wife  sat  looking  at  Yvette  a  long  time  with- 
out speaking.  Then  in  her  curious  guttural  French,  like 
a  frog  croaking  in  the  marshes,  she  asked  a  question. 

"Who  is  shef" 

It  is  to  be  noted  that  this  woman  had  been  in  prison, 
that  she  knew  nothing  of  the  circumstances  of  Yvette's 


3.8 


FLOWER-O'-THE-CORN 


life,  save  what  she  had  seen  from  the  stable-floor  of  the 
Bon  Chretien  at  La  Cavalerie,  and  learned  since  from 
the  gossip  of  the  prison  floor. 

Yet  looking  in  the  eyes  of  the  other  woman,  her  equal, 
she  said  only,  "  Who  is  she?  " 

"  The  Englishwoman  !  "  answered  Yvette. 

Bet  Marshall  took  the  information  calmly.  It  was 
as  she  had  expected,  and  her  plan  of  campaign  was 
ready. 

She  saw  Keltonhill  Fair  at  the  end  of  all,  and  her  hus- 
band parading  the  long  wattled  street  from  end  to  end, 
cudgel  in  hand,  seeking  new  worlds  to  conquer. 

Incidentally,  however,  she  was  not  unwilling  to  assist 
a  few  other  persons  to  their  several  "  Keltonhills."  She 
asked  certain  questions,  to  be  sure  of  her  ground. 

"  She  is  in  your  house?  " 

"  You  wish  her  out  of  it,  but  no  further  ill?  " 

To  these  queries  Yvette  answered  only  by  a  nod  of  the 
head.     Then  there  came  another,  more  intimate. 

"  And  your  husband  ?  " 

"  I  love  him  !  " 

"  And  he  ?  " 

Yvette  flushed  redly,  then  slowly  grew  pale  again. 

"  I  think — I  believe — he  loves  me,"  she  said,  "  but  I 
have  known  men — many  men.  He  is  a  man,  and  there- 
fore I  am  afraid  !  " 

The  gypsy  nodded.  These  things  had  not  been  hid 
from  the  blood  of  Egypt  during  their  thousand  genera- 
tions. 

"  We,"  she  said,  softly — "  we  have  a  remedy " 

"  I  know,"  said  Yvette,  quickly,  "  I  have  thought  of 
that.  But  that  would  not  give  me  back  the  love  of  my 
husband ! " 

The  gypsy  wife  pondered,  smoothing  one  of  Yvette's 
empty  gloves  between  her  fingers.  "  There  is  another 
way,"  she  said.     "  I  have  tried  it." 

The  girl  looked  up  expectant.  The  gypsy  moved  a 
little  nearer. 


GATHERING  THE  FRAGMENTS  319 

"  See,"  she  went  on,  "  once  it  so  happened  to  me — or 
almost.  There  was  one  Lilias,  of  the  BailHe  folk — a 
good  name,  but  hard  to  deal  with,  men  and  women  of 
them.  She  was  younger  than  I — perhaps — the  other 
also.  My  man  looked  on  her  as  on  all  women,  with 
observance,  yet  as  strong  men  look  at  that  which  in 
nowise  concerns  them,  being  content. 

"  Nevertheless  she,  this  Lilias,  waited  for  him,  with 
downcast  eyes  and  a  heavy  burden,  which  he  would 
snatch  up  and  help  her  to  carry  to  her  tan,  as  (God  be 
just  to  him  !)  he  would  have  done  for  the  oldest  grand- 
dam  in  the  camp.  There  was  no  harm  in  him,  no — nor 
thought  of  harm. 

"  Nor  perhaps  in  her  either !  But — he  was  a  man  and 
it  behoved  me  to  guard  mine  own." 

Yvette  looked  up  sharply,  with  a  glance  of  keenest 
interest.  She  had  begun  by  listening  carelessly,  with  a 
kind  of  wearied  resignation. 

"  So  I  went  to  a  young  lad  of  spirit — one  I  knew  who 
had  noted  Lilias — and  I  told  him  to  be  at  a  well  in  a 
certain  wood  at  a  time  fixed.  I  bade  him  not  to  come 
alone.  So  with  a  nod  and  a  wink  he  understood  and 
was  there  in  hiding  with  all  his  friends  about  him.  Then 
I  bade  the  lass  venture  forth  with  me  to  bring  in  the 
water  for  the  night,  and,  well — the  young  man  carried 
off  the  maid  on  horseback,  as  is  the  custom  of  us  gypsies, 
while  his  friends  restrained  me  so  that  I  could  not  scream 
too  soon.  Thus  in  a  good  hour  Lilias  gat  a  man  of  her 
own,  and  I,  Bet  Marshall,  dwelt  at  peace  in  my  tent !  " 

She  stopped,  and  Yvette  sat  taking  in  the  moral  of 
the  tale. 

"  I  see  not  how,"  she  said,  after  a  while. 

The  old  gypsy  wife  bent  and  whispered  in  her  ear. 

"  There  is  a  maid — let  us  say  Lilias,  one  too  many  in 
the  house  that  is  yours  by  right.  Without  there  is  a 
youth  who  sighs  amain,  and  listens  for  her  step.  With 
him  is  a  minister,  having  power  to  marry.  I  give  not 
much  for  your  ingenuity  if  you  cannot  compass  a  horse 


3  2o        FLO  WER-O'-THE-CORN 

or  two  for  them  to  escape  upon,  me  and  my  man  accom- 
panying them." 

Yvette  nodded. 

•"  Yes,"  she  said,  "  that  would  indeed  ease  me  in  one 
direction.  It  is  well  thought  on ;  but  will  the  girl  be 
willing  to  marry  the  man  ?  " 

"  That  I  leave  you  to  find  out,  lady,"  said  Bet.  "  Many 
things  have  happened  since  last  I  looked  in  her  eyes. 
She  was  willing  enough  then,  I  know !  " 

The  gypsy  was  conducted  back  to  the  open  hall  in 
which  the  common  prisoners  were  herded  together  like 
sheep  in  a  fold. 

Yvette  stood  some  time  in  deep  thought  after  Bet 
Marshall  had  left  the  room. 

"  'Tis  a  thought  over-simple,"  she  murmured  with  a 
smile.  "  Yvette  Foy  as  fairy  godmother  with  a  bag  of 
sugar-plums  and  a  '  Bless  you,  my  children ! '  The  world 
has  not  seen  the  like." 

Suddenly  she  laughed  archly  and  wickedly.  She  struck 
her  hands  together  with  mischievous  glee.  "  That  is  it, 
that  is  it,"  she  cried.  "  I  will  play  fairy  godmother — 
with  variations !  " 


XXXVII 

VICE    PROVIDENCE    SUPERSEDED 

FROM  that  hour  the  Marshal  de  Montrevel  found 
his  house  suddenly  changed  to  him.  He  was 
circled  with  an  atmosphere  of  contentment.  His 
gracious  speeches  to  Flower-o'-the-Corn  were  no  longer 
watched  with  jealous  suspicion,  no  longer  interrupted  by 
a  tall  Nemesis  with  dark  tempestuous  brows  and  flashing 
eyes. 

And  the  veteran  was  devoutly  grateful.  For  it  chanced 
that  the  despatches  he  was  daily  receiving  from  his  mon- 
arch were  by  no  means  calculated  to  soothe  a  troubled 
soul. 

It  was  obvious  that  his  enemies  were  at  work,  and 
though,  in  order  to  obtain  some  respite,  he  had  partially 
revealed  his  plan  for  the  pacification  of  the  Cevennes 
without  further  appeal  to  arms,  rebuff  followed  reproof, 
and  it  was  obvious  that  recall  would  march  not  far  be- 
hind. 

Specially  was  his  action  with  regard  to  the  British  spy, 
declaring  himself  to  be  an  officer  of  the  army  and  staff 
of  the  Duke  of  Marlborough,  most  severely  blamed.  He 
was  required  to  place  the  young  man  upon  his  trial  im- 
mediately, and — this  touched  the  honest  Marquis  no  lit- 
tle— so  to  constitute  the  court  that  a  verdict  satisfactory 
to  his  Majesty  the  King  might  be  returned,  and  a  warn- 
ing given  which  would  prevent  repetitions  of  such  at- 
tempts to  stir  up  the  peoples  of  France  against  their 
legitimate  sovereign.  To  this  it  was  added,  that  the  King 
had  reason  to  believe  that  the  young  man  could  produce 
no  authorization  of  his  action  from  his  superiors,  and 

321 


322        FLOWER-O'-THE-CORN 

that,  indeed,  he  was  wholly  disavowed  by  his  own  com- 
mander-in-chief. In  which  case  there  would,  of  course, 
be  no  difficulty. 

The  Marquis  de  Montrevel,  who  had  been  expecting 
his  own  dismissal  or  supersession,  sat  bewildered  with  the 
letter  of  the  royal  secretary  in  his  hand.  He  would  rather 
a  thousand  times  it  had  been  his  recall.  Stout  Nicholas 
de  Baume  could  have  taken  his  pleasure  bravely  at  his 
country  seat  for  the  remainder  of  his  life  in  the  society  of 
the  woman  he  had  chosen.  But  to  hold  this  young  man's 
death-warrant  in  his  hand,  and  be  forced  to  carry  it  out 
with  all  the  form  and  color  of  justice,  sickened  him. 

"A  thousand  curses  on  the  King's  Majesty!"  he 
growled — first  of  all,  somewhat  undutifully,  crumpling  up 
the  royal  letter  in  his  hand.  Then  he  smoothed  it  out 
again  to  see  if  he  could  make  a  better  of  it.  But  the  de- 
sign was  too  clear. 

"  How  did  they  learn  all  this?  "  he  muttered,  stamping 
his  foot  angrily ;  "  there  is  a  traitor  somewhere — surely 
not  among  my  officers?  They  are  all  devoted  to  me.  De 
Banville?  Well,  that  might  be;  but  I  cannot  imagine 
how  he  got  his  information." 

At  this  moment  his  wife  came  in,  to  find  him  moving 
restlessly  hither  and  thither,  picking  up  one  object  and 
then  another  about  his  chamber,  and  pulling  distractedly 
at  his  long  gray  military  mustachios — with  de  Mont- 
revel a  sure  sign  of  mental  trouble. 

Yvette  went  up  to  him,  and  linking  her  arm  in  his,  be- 
sought him  to  tell  her  his  unrest.  No  one  could  be  more 
delicately  or  more  fitly  tender  than  Yvette  when  the  mood 
was  upon  her. 

"  Have  they  sent  you  back  to  the  country?  "  she  mur- 
mured, caressingly;  "well,  what  matter!  Anything  will 
be  better  than  this  out-at-elbows  Millau,  where  the  only 
recreation  is  for  the  women  to  wash  the  clothes,  and  for 
the  men  to  spit  into  the  river  from  the  coping  of  the 
bridge." 

At  her  first  entrance  she  had  ^een  the  royal  letter  lying 


PROVIDENCE    SUPERSEDED   323 

crumpled  on  the  floor,  but  she  made  no  allusion  to  it, 
knowing  that  if  he  were  seriously  troubled  it  would  not 
be  long  before  her  husband  would  take  her  into  his  coun- 
cils, 

"  There,"  he  said,  laconically,  indicating  the  document 
with  his  foot.  "  There  is  a  good  fellow's  death-warrant 
— and  all  that  woman's  doing!  " 

Yvette's  face  changed  ever  so  slightly. 

"  What  woman  ?  "  she  said,  hastily,  adding  in  a  curious 
voice,  "  Is  it  Jean  Cavalier?  " 

"  No,  the  young  Englishman — the  officer.  I  thought 
to  hold  him  safe  till  this  matter  had  been  arranged,  and 
then  have  him  sent  over  the  frontier.  But  there  has  been 
a  spy  amongst  us.  The  King  has  been  told,  or  what  is 
the  same  thing — Scarron's  widow !  " 

"  But,  after  all,  was  the  man  not  a  spy?  "  asked  Yvette, 
innocently,  lifting  the  paper  from  the  floor;  "is  this  his 
death-warrant?  " 

"  It  is  worse,  a  thousand  times,"  said  the  Marshal, 
kicking  at  the  woodwork  of  the  window-sill  with  his  toes; 
"  it  puts  the  weight  of  condemnation  on  me.  I  am  to 
bear  the  disgrace  of  his  death  if  he  is  executed,  or  be 
loaded  by  the  King  with  the  blame  of  mismanaging  the 
afifair  if  he  escapes!  " 

Yvette  smiled,  with  a  sudden  flash  of  pretty  teeth,  be- 
hind the  Marshal's  back,  as  she  swiftly  perused  the  royal 
letter. 

"  Eugenie  hath  done  her  work  quickly,"  she  thought; 
"  it  was  most  fortunate  that  she  chanced  to  be  in  wait- 
ing this  month  upon  the  Duchess." 

Then  she  sat  down  by  the  table  and  knitted  her  brows 
over  the  manuscript  with  the  prettiest  afifectation  of  per- 
turbation, so  that  the  Marquis  unbent  and  said,  as  to  a 
child,  "  Run  away,  beloved.  It  is  not  worth  while 
troubling  your  head  about.  Luckily,  it  did  not  touch 
your  friend  or  her  father,  and,  at  the  worst,  I  daresay 
there  is  a  way  out.  At  least  I  can  put  ofif  the  court-mar- 
tial as  long  as  may  be!  " 


324        FLOWER-O'-THE-CORN 

But  Yvette  did  not  run  away.  She  sat  and  mused, 
looking  at  her  husband  the  while.  Presently,  as  with  a 
quick  impulse,  she  caught  the  gold-braided  edge  of  his 
uniform,  and  drew  him  toward  her.  He  stood  looking 
fondly  down  upon  her.  With  her  other  hand  she  reached 
up  and  caressed  the  rough  grizzle  behind  his  ear. 

"Of  course,  I  cannot  help  you,  can  I?"  she  said; 
"  they  say  two  heads  are  better  than  one,  but  mine  is  such 
a  poor  affair!  " 

"  You  would  not  have  this  young  man  die?  "  de  Mont- 
revel  asked. 

Yvette  gave  vent  to  a  little  pouting  shudder,  infinitely 
expressive.  It  disclaimed  any  personal  interest  in  Mau- 
rice Raith.  It  expressed  a  general  dislike  to  the  death 
penalty  when  carried  out  in  too  close  proximity  to  the 
dwelling  of  a  Marshal's  wife,  and  in  addition,  it  declared 
a  conviction  that  if  the  matter  were  only  committed  to 
her,  she,  Yvette  de  Baume,  nee  Foy,  Marechale  de  Mont- 
revel,  would  at  once  please  the  King,  satisfy  her  hus- 
band's honor,  and,  incidentally,  save  the  young  man's 
life. 

Now  Yvette  Foy  could  do  nothing  simply.  In  the 
most  ordinary  actions  of  life  her  motives  were  complex. 
Even  in  marrying  her  husband,  and  taking  her  position 
as  Madame  la  Marechale,  the  arrangement  was  redeemed 
from  the  charge  of  being  simply  mercenary  by  Yvette's 
sudden  discovery  that  she  loved  her  husband. 

Nevertheless,  there  was  a  twist  in  the  girl's  nature 
which  made  her  instinctively  resent  the  happiness  of  an- 
other, especially  of  one  who  had  made  her,  for  ever  so 
short  a  time,  feel  the  prick  of  jealousy. 

Moreover,  had  not  Maurice  Raith  been  in  her  toils? 
She  had  ear-marked  him.  So,  indeed,  had  she  done  with 
Cavalier,  but  that  was  diiTerent.  Jean  Cavalier  loved  her 
still.  Maurice  Raith  had  had  the  audacity  to  love  an- 
other.   Still  worse,  to  tell  her  of  it. 

No,  Maurice  Raith  should  not  be  shot  for  a  spy,  if  she 
could  help  it.    That  was  not  a  pretty  ending  to  any  love- 


PROVIDENCE    SUPERSEDED    325 

tale,  however  transient.  But  neither  should  he  marry 
Flower-o'-the-Corn.  What  was  there  in  the  girl,  at  any 
rate?  Pretty — yes,  perhaps — in  an  insipid  fashion.  Men 
raved  about  her.  Yes,  again — boys  who  had  last  kissed 
their  mothers.  Frances  Wellwood  should  go  back  to 
Scotland  and  marry  a  parson — a  pastor  like  her  father. 
That  was  what  she  was  fit  for. 

And  Maurice  Raith — well,  she  would  see.  At  all 
events,  he  must  not  be  thrown  away  upon  the  milk-and- 
water  girl.  So  much  had  been  arranged  for  him  in  the 
books  of  Fate  edited  and  arranged  by  Yvette  Foy,  Mare- 
chale  de  Montreveli — vice  Providence,  superseded. 

So  it  came  to  pass  that  Yvette  Foy  had,  what  she  loved 
most  on  earth  (next  to  the  more  refined  forms  of  sin),  a 
difficult  problem  to  solve.  She  had  that  sort  of  brain 
which  works  best  when  surrounded  by  difficulties,  when 
one  problem  after  another  is  presented  for  solution,  and 
of  which  the  net  result  must  be  translated  into  terms  of 
instant,  vigorous,  and  delicate  action. 

Through  an  intermediary  in  Millau,  Yvette  kept  up  a 
constant  correspondence  with  certain  friends  in  the  Cam- 
isard  villages,  and  it  was,  indeed,  by  her  means  that  the 
Marshal  knew  everything  which  went  on  there.  He  was, 
for  instance,  aware  of  the  fact  that  Jean  Cavalier  was  still 
being  nursed  by  Catinat,  and  that,  though  publicly  de- 
posed from  authority,  there  was  a  numerous  party  among 
the  younger  men  favorable  to  his  plan  of  making  a  sub- 
mission to  the  King,  and  of  sending  Cevenol  regiments  to 
the  northern  battle-fields  to  fight  against  the  King's 
enemies. 

It  only  remained,  therefore,  for  Yvette  to  close  her 
combinations  and  bring  Cavafier  and  those  who  adhered 
to  him  to  the  camp  of  the  Marshal  in  the  valley  of  Millau. 
Now  it  hardly  needs  to  be  said  that  Yvette  was  the 
complete  aventuricrc  born  and  bred,  which  is  something 
essentially  different  from  our  English  "  adventuress." 
She  had  attained  all  that  an  adventuress  could  hope  for 
— a  husband  whom  she  loved,  a  high  position,  the  sort 


326 


FLOWER-O'-THE-CORN 


of  society  in  which  she  was  best  suited  to  shine — she  who 
had  been  but  the  innkeeper's  daughter  of  La  Cavalerie. 
But  Yvette  was  the  true  aventiirierc  pur  sang — she  loved 
adventure  for  itself  alone,  not  for  what  it  would  bring  her. 

Daily  she  declared  her  willingness  to  retire  with  her 
husband  to  his  woods  and  country  houses,  his  tree-plant- 
ing and  hedge-pruning.  Yet  she  would  have  wearied  of 
them  in  a  fortnight  and  have  begun  to  sigh  for  the  space 
and  movement  of  the  camp,  the  gayly-dressed  officers, 
the  change,  movement,  uncertainty,  the  admiring  eyes 
which  followed  her,  the  return  glances  keen  as  rapiers, 
soft  as  honey  in  the  comb;  above  all,  for  the  knowledge 
that  she  was  appreciated — in  short,  the  things  which  made 
life  worth  living.  She  had  these.  Nevertheless,  advent- 
ure drove  her  with  whips.  It  was  not  intrigue  so  much 
that  she  cared  for.  Rather  the  love  of  change,  of  power, 
the  need  of  action  stimulated  a  nature  changeful  and 
brilliant  as  the  neck  of  a  pheasant  or  the  heart  of  an  opal. 

So  it  need  not  surprise  any  who  have  followed  the  ca- 
reer of  Yvette  Foy  thus  far,  to  know  that  on  the  third 
night  after  her  husband  had  shown  her  the  King's  letter 
she  was  to  be  found  (had  there  been  any  to  find  her), 
wrapped  in  a  hooded  cloak,  and  in  a  peasant  woman's 
dress,  making  her  way  in  the  direction  of  La  Cavalerie 
by  the  steep  path  up  which  she  had  passed  and  repassed 
so  many  times. 

Yvette  had  waited  only  till  her  husband  was  safe  in 
the  great  tent  with  his  officers,  engaged  in  those  in- 
terminable military  discussions  concerning  sieges  and 
counter-marches  of  which  the  land  service  never  seems  to 
weary.  She  herself  had  told  de  Montrevel  that  she  was 
tired  and  would  go  to  her  own  room  early.  In  which  case 
she  knew  that  he  would  sit  up  half  the  night  with  his 
colonels  and  stafT,  and  that  she  would  not  be  disturbed 
till  the  next  morning.  Though  the  spring  was  coming, 
the  nights  were  yet  long,  and  Yvette  had  good  reason  to 
hope  that  she  might  be  able  to  make  the  double  journey 
in  time  to  be  back  for  the  Marshal's  breakfast  hour.     In 


PROVIDENCE    SUPERSEDED    327 

any  case,  she  had  told  her  maid  not  to  call  her  before 
eleven. 

Only  to  Flower-o'-the-Corn  did  she  reveal  her  inten- 
tion of  visiting  La  Cavalerie.  She  told  her  that  the  fact 
that  she  had  received  no  news  from  her  father  recently 
filled  her  with  the  deepest  anxiety.  She  could  bear  it  no 
longer.  She  must  go  and  find  out,  but  if  she  had  not  re- 
turned by  eleven  the  next  morning,  Frances  was  to  go  in 
person  to  the  Marquis  and  reveal  the  cause  of  his  wife's 
absence  to  him. 

So  it  was  with  a  feeling  akin  to  elation  that  Yvette 
found  herself  away  from  the  camp  and  out  upon  the 
naked  bareness  of  the  limestone.  The  lights  of  the  great 
military  tent  twinkled  immediately  beneath  her.  Further 
oflf  she  could  see  a  faint  single  illumination,  which  she 
knew  to  be  the  window-light  of  Flower-o'-the-Corn. 

"  She  will  be  saying  her  prayers,"  she  said,  with  a  brief 
bitter  smile,  almost  a  grimace;  in  which,  however,  was 
neither  hatred  nor  envy,  but  rather  the  involuntary 
homage  which  a  godless  woman  pays  to  one  who  believes 
as  a  woman  should.  There  was  a  kind  of  sadness  in  the 
exclamation,  too — for  presently  she  sighed  a  little  and 
said,  "  Once  I  could  have  said  my  prayers  with  the  best 
of  them — ah,  once.  Am  I  any  worse  now  than  then? — I 
wonder." 

Then,  as  she  turned  her  face  toward  the  great  mass  of 
the  Larzac  above  her,  all  blanched  in  the  bleaching  moon- 
light, placid,  still,  windless,  the  long  shadows  of  its 
bowlder-splinters  projected  across  the  wind-dried  crum- 
ble of  the  soil,  something  took  hold  on  her  with  a  vivid 
sense  of  pleasure.     She  drew  a  long  breath. 

"  After  all,  what  matter?  "  she  said.  "  Things  happen 
to  me;  or,  if  of  themselves  they  do  not  happen,  I  will 
make  them  happen.  I  had  rather  be  a  gypsy  wife  and 
trudge  it  along  the  highway  with  Bet  Marshall,  than  like 
Eugenie,  live  as  bond-slave  and  maid-of-honor  to 
Madame  Scarron,  Mother  Superior  of  the  Royal  nun- 
nery." 


328        FLOWER-O'-THE-CORN 

"  Still,"  she  continued,  as  she  made  her  way  upward, 
"  I  own  that  I  would  like  to  walk  once  in  the  CEil  de  Beuf 
— just  once,  with  M.  le  Due  d'Orleans,  and — my  hus- 
band— looking  on." 

It  was  the  fullest  full  of  the  moon  and  a  glorious  night. 
The  turn  of  the  year  had,  as  usual,  brought  vast  crenel- 
lated clouds  into  the  sky,  the  bastions  and  towers  of  some 
Titanic  architecture.  These  alternately  revealed  and  con- 
cealed the  moon,  as  they  drifted  slow  as  galleons  of  Spain 
upon  a  sea  of  glass,  from  one  side  of  the  black  hemisphere 
of  night  to  the  other. 

The  surface  of  the  Causse,  once  Yvette  had  attained  to 
the  higher  levels,  spread  out  before  her,  plain  as  the  palm 
of  a  hand,  save  for  those  curiously  characteristic  rocks, 
which,  apparently  without  connection  with  the  underly- 
ing limestone,  stand  up  like  icebergs  out  of  the  sea,  ir- 
regular, pinnacled,  the  debris  of  temples  destroyed  or 
ever  foot  of  man  fell  there — spires,  gargoyles,  hideous 
monsters,  all  dejected  in  some  unutterable  catastrophe 
and  become  more  horrible  in  the  moonlight,  or  on  the 
other  hand  modified  to  the  divine  calm  of  the  Buddha 
himself,  by  some  passing  effect  of  illumination  or  trick  of 
cloud  umbration. 

And  across  this,  without  pause,  quick-footed,  self-re- 
liant, well-armed,  Yvette  took  her  way.  Her  heart  beat 
faster,  indeed,  but  it  was  with  an  excitement  wholly 
pleasurable.  She  feared  the  lurking  shapes  of  these 
primaeval  monsters  no  more  than  the  casual  sheep  whi-^h, 
having  escaped  from  their  flocks,  had  hidden  away  in  or- 
der to  crop  the  grasses  of  the  coming  springtime  in  the 
sheltered  valleys,  or  where  a  few  patches  of  melting  snow, 
with  snowdrop  and  tufts  of  the  small  cruciform  gentian, 
blue  as  turquoise,  formed  an  irresistible  temptation. 

A  wonderful  land,  this  of  the  Gausses,  where  the  rain 
never  comes  to  stay.  Indeed,  it  might  as  well  rain  on  a 
vast  dry  sponge  thirty  miles  across  and  four  or  five  thou- 
sand feet  in  height.  The  sheep  up  there  never  drink. 
They  only  eat  the  sparse  tender  grass  when  the  dew  is 


PROVIDENCE    SUPERSEDED    329 

upon  it.  Yet  from  their  milk  the  curious  cheese  called 
Roquefort  is  made,  which,  being  kept  long  in  cool  lime- 
stone cellars — the  cellules  of  the  stony  sponge — puts  on 
something  of  the  flavor  of  the  rock  plants,  thyme,  juni- 
per, dwarf  birch,  honey-sweet  heath,  from  which  it  was 
distilled. 

But  of  all  this,  and  concerning  all  the  lives,  true  and 
loyal,  that  had  been  passed  there — Huguenot  and  Catho- 
lic, Camisard  and  Cadet  of  the  Cross,  this  little  Yvette 
did  not  trouble  her  head.  All  was  the  same  to  her.  The 
world,  as  it  seemed  to  the  active  brain  which  lay  behind 
the  white  brow  with  its  fringe  of  dark  locks,  was  a  spi- 
der's world,  made  up  of  excellent  good  webs,  laid  for 
the  cunningest  purposes,  or  sometimes  of  a  summer  morn- 
ing sent  wavering  gossamer-fine  through  space  for  the 
mere  joy  of  production.  Often,  indeed,  they  came  to 
nothing' — the  fly  escaped,  the  net  was  broken.  The  spi- 
der had  come  in  contact  with  the  Superior  Power — a 
man,  a  horse,  anything — which  are  as  mysterious  to 
Spiderdom  as  God  and  Providence  seem  to  us,  tearing 
rudely  away  that  which  has  cost  so  much  of  thought  and 
efifort  to  produce. 

Yvette,  the  beautiful  spider,  could  not  help  her  nature. 
She  was  at  it  again,  laying  her  webs  in  the  moonlight  as 
she  took  her  way  to  La  Cavalerie.  Jean  Cavalier  was  the 
name  of  the  fly  this  time — a  good  fly  enough,  an  active 
fly.  Once  he  had  been  in  the  toils  before.  In  a  sense  he 
was  so  still.  But — with  a  sudden  sense  of  disappointment 
the  thought  came  to  her — he  showed  symptoms  of  escap- 
ing, or  perhaps,  more  exactly,  of  becoming  her  husband's 
fly,  not  hers.  Yvette  took  no  interest  in  her  husband's 
flies. 

But  though  her  eyes  were  acute,  her  senses  vivid,  yet 
there  was  that  abroad  upon  the  face  of  the  waste  whose 
faculties  were  infinitely  keener,  more  alert  than  hers. 
Back  there  behind  the  ledge  was  a  shape  which,  had 
Yvette  only  stopped  quickly  enough,  she  might  have 
seen  stand  still,  instantly  turned  to  stone,  between  two 


330        FLOWER-O'-THE-CORN 

blocks  as  bizarre  in  appearance  as  itself,  or,  turning,  she 
might  have  caught  a  shadow  flitting  toward  her  silent- 
footed  as  a  cloud-patch  across  the  waste.  From  bowlder 
to  bowlder  the  Thing  glided,  always  following  closely,  al- 
ways upon  her  track,  yet  never  approaching  too  near  nor 
yet  permitting  the  girl  to  get  so  far  away  that  one  swift 
rush  would  not  bring  pursuer  and  pursued  face  to  face. 

How  many  turn  their  heads,  journeying  across  the  wil- 
derness, when  there  is  no  pursuer!  On  the  other  hand, 
how  many  also  are  tracked,  step  by  step,  from  refuge  to 
covert,  by  a  Fate  whose  footfall  is  never  heard,  whose 
presence  never  noted. 

The  Thing  that  followed  Yvette  was  of  human  form 
and  ran  swiftly,  but  even  had  she  turned  and  seen,  it 
would  instantly  have  stood  so  still  upon  the  plain,  which 
was  strewn  with  a  myriad  of  rocks  of  all  shapes,  that  she 
might  easily  have  taken  it  for  one  of  those  strange  and 
weird  bowlder  shapes  which  cumber  the  vast  table-land 
of  the  Larzac. 

Yvette,  however,  her  mind  full  of  her  mission,  went  on 
her  way,  following  the  track  mechanically,  where,  across 
the  waste,  great  wooden  posts  are  set  up,  gaunt  and  gray, 
to  mark  the  highway  through  the  long  cumbering  snows 
of  winter. 

At  length  the  walls  of  the  little  Templar  town,  the  in- 
trenched citadel  of  the  Camisard  rebels,  could  be  dis- 
cerned upon  the  highest  roof  of  the  Larzac.  The  first  low 
outposts  could  hardly  be  seen.  They  were  sunk  behind 
the  dykes  and  hedges  with  which  Cavalier  had  cut  up  the 
ground  to  afiford  shelter  to  his  troops. 

It  was  interesting  to  note  the  method  of  Yvette  Foy's 
homecoming.  Nothing  of  uncertainty — nothing  of  fear 
marked  her  approach  to  her  ancient  dwelling-place.  On 
the  contrary,  her  foot  took  on  a  more  certain  spring,  her 
limbs  a  new  swiftness  of  motion  as  she  came  close  to  the 
walls  of  La  Cavalerie. 

Among  the  many  and  grave  faults  of  Mistress  Yvette 
that  of  miserliness  had  no  place.    The  lively  lady  was  no 


PROVIDENCE    SUPERSEDED   331 

niggard.  Therefore  she  was  well  served  as  to  her  intelli- 
gence department. 

At  the  advance  post  she  had  the  pass-word  ready,  sign 
and  countersign,  just  as  Catinat  had  arranged  them.  She 
went  straight  to  the  gatehouse,  still  tenanted  by  old  Elise, 
who  had  remained  in  the  dirt  of  her  unused  apartments, 
like  an  ancient  brood  hen  "  clutched  "  in  the  summer  dust 
under  a  bank,  ever  since  the  departure  of  Flower-o'-the- 
Corn. 

At  the  outer  lines  the  flitting  phantom  which  had  ac- 
companied Yvette  across  the  waste  of  gray  stones  stopped 
suddenly — not,  as  it  appeared,  because  the  trenches  and 
sentinels  presented  any  particular  difficulty,  but  solely  be- 
cause, having  convoyed  the  girl  so  far,  its  mission  was 
ended. 

Yvette  tapped  lightly  on  a  window  that  still  remained 
lit  on  the  first  story,  with  one  of  the  long  dried  reeds  of 
which  the  rude  garden  fence  was  constructed.  All  was 
done  easily  and  naturally,  as  if  it  had  been  an  action  of 
long  custom. 

But  there  was  that  within  the  house  of  old  Elise  which 
had  some  need  of  secrecy.  All  indeed  was  dark  and  grim 
and  desolate  to  the  outside  view. 

But  when  once  the  door  had  been  opened  in  response  to 
the  word  which  Yvette  spoke  in  a  low  tone,  the  girl  found 
herself  in  a  swarming  nest  of  young  male  humanity. 

"  Is  Jean  Cavalier  here?"  she  said,  softly,  as  she  en- 
tered. 

"  Not  yet,"  said  the  frowsy  hag,  whose  fondness  for 
strong  liquors  perfumed  the  whole  house  and  even  sent 
strays  of  floating  cau-dc-vie  out  athwart  the  path  of  the 
passing  traveller.  Cavalier  was  late  that  night,  she  grum- 
bled. It  was  not  his  custom,  but,  as  Catinat  still  kept 
an  eye  upon  him,  he  had  to  be  careful.  Soon,  however, 
when  her  good  lads  got  to  work,  there  would  be  no  more 
Catinats,  haling  poor  honest  women  before  the  jus- 
ticers  and  elders  of  the  village — elders,  indeed,  some  of 
them  no  better  than  they  should  be,  for  all  their  gravity! 


332        FLOWER-O'-THE-CORN 

Ah,  the  tales  she  could  tell — "  an  she  would — aye,  an  she 
would!  " 

Whereupon  Madame  Elise  sat  down  and  wept  with 
feeble  copiousness,  because  she  was  a  forlorn  old  woman 
who  had  no  friends  and  had  drunk  rather  more  eau-de-vu 
than  was  good  for  her. 

Yvette  turned  up  her  pretty  nose  at  this,  but  did  not 
answer,  nor,  indeed,  take  very  much  notice  of  the  woman's 
words.  She  talked  apart  with  this  one  and  that  of  the 
young  men,  to  whom  she  assumed  the  mode  of  speech  of 
a  Camisard  who  had  faced  things,  and  knew  (what  she 
was  anxious  that  they  also  should  acknowledge)  that 
there  was  no  hope  for  them  or  their  country  save  in 
submitting  to  the  King. 

At  last  there  was  a  general  stir.  The  door  opened,  and 
a  young  man  of  a  pale  countenance  came  in  leaning 
heavily  upon  a  staff. 

"  It  is  he!"  The  whisper  went  round,  and  all  men's 
faces  grew  brighter,  their  manner  more  assured. 

Yvette  stood  up  to  greet  the  leader,  throwing  back  her 
hooded  cloak  suddeenly.  The  lamplight  shone  upward 
on  her  clear-lined  dark  face,  flushed  with  the  long  exer- 
cise in  the  chill  air.  Her  lips  were  scarlet  and  her  hair 
mere  filmy  wisps  of  darkness. 

The  young  man's  staff  fell  clattering  to  the  floor. 

"  Yvette!  "  he  cried,  with  a  gasp  of  surprise,  clutching 
with  his  hands  at  the  empty  air. 

And  he  would  have  fallen  had  not  the  girl  held  out  her 
arms. 


As  she  laid  him  gently  back  on  a  wooden  settle  over 
which  a  coverlet  had  hastily  been  flung,  she  smiled  to 
herself. 

'*  Good,"  she  said,  "  this  will  make  it  easier.  He  loves 
me  still!    Me,  and  none  other!  " 


XXXVIII 

THE    EASY    DESCENT    OF   AVERNUS 

IT  was  true.  It  did  make  it  easier — for  Yvette.  As  to 
Cavalier,  there  is  an  old  proverb  of  every-day  ap- 
plication which  concerns  the  making  of  beds  and 
the  lying  upon  them,  which  as  a  matter  of  course  puts 
him  outside  the  reach  of  pity. 

All  the  same,  there  are  sins  more  deeply  dyed  in  crim- 
son and  scarlet  which  have  more  of  the  world's  tolerance 
than  those  of  poor  Jean  Cavalier. 

"  I  am  here,"  said  Yvette,  as  soon  as  Cavalier  had  come 
to  himself,  "  to  take  you  to  the  King.  The  interview  is  all 
arranged.  You  have,  I  see,  your  men  about  you.  Any 
that  are  wanting  I  can  help  you  to  recruit  from  the  sturdy 
fellows  who  are  every  day  flocking  in  to  the  standard  of 
the  Marechal  de  Montrevel.  They  will  be  delighted  to 
serve  under  so  famous  a  leader  as  Colonel  Cavalier.  So 
doubt  not  that  all  will  happen  according  to  our  desire." 

Cavalier  carried  his  hand  uncertainly  to  his  brow,  with 
the  dazed  look  of  one  who  has  fallen  from  a  great  height, 
or  has  been  stricken  treacherously  from  behind. 

"/  hold  him!"  she  murmured,  in  her  own  quick  ex- 
pressive French,  in  which  the  phrase  means  more  than 
the  translation  of  the  words  into  English  can  convey. 

Yes,  he  was  her  own,  haltered  and  handcuffed,  to  do 
with  as  she  would.  And  her  purposes  with  her  prisoner 
were  very  definite  indeed. 

First  of  all  she  must  get  him  down  to  the  camp  of 
Millau,  and  to  that  she  was  now  directing  her  energies. 
Two  methods   commended  themselves  to  her  thought. 

333 


334        FLOWER-O'-THE-CORN 

Cavalier's  men  might  straggle  away  secretly,  uniting  at 
the  camp  below,  or  they  might  march  out  of  La  Cavalerie, 
pretending  a  raid  on  some  neighboring  Catholic  village. 

On  the  whole,  Yvette  preferred  the  latter,  both  because 
they  could  then  enter  the  camp  at  Millau  with  more  eclat, 
and  because  they  would  be  enabled  to  protect  Jean  Cav- 
alier on  his  way  down. 

As  for  Yvette  the  aventurierc,  that  little  woman  never 
for  a  moment  doubted  her  power  to  protect  herself. 

Jean  Cavalier  sat  near  her  in  the  upper  chamber  of  the 
Gate  Tower,  to  which  still  clung  a  certain  odor  of  cloves 
and  caii-dc-vie,  the  special  bouquet  of  Elise  the  Aged. 
The  young  man  did  not  seem  able  to  remove  his  eyes 
from  her  face.  He  had  thought  that  the  spell  was  broken, 
but  he  was  now  fatally  to  discover  his  mistake.  As  in  a 
dream  he  listened  to  Yvette  giving  her  commands  to  the 
men  who  had  cast  in  their  lot  with  his,  and  declared  their 
willingness  to  follow  him  alone  over  the  world. 

"  And  do  you,"  she  spoke  to  two  lads  who  stood  shyly 
together  in  a  corner,  "  go  and  find  a  couple  of  horses  for 
us  to  ride  upon.  It  is  necessary  that  I  should  be  back  be- 
fore the  day.  I  do  not  choose  to  return  with  you,  and, 
owing  to  his  wound,  Cavalier  here  cannot,  as  you  men  can, 
find  his  way  to  Millau  at  a  wolfs  trot!  Haste  you,  then. 
Bring  the  horses!  " 

"  Madame,"  said  one  of  the  young  men,  the  son  of 
Castanet,  a  noted  leader  of  the  Camisards  of  the  elder  and 
more  sober  faction,  "  it  is  not  so  easy  to  find  two  horses 
in  La  Cavalerie  at  such  short  notice,  and  specially  difficult 
to  get  them  beyond  the  barriers  without  any  questions  be- 
ing asked." 

"  No  matter,"  she  answered,  imperiously,  "  you  must 
do  it.    I  say  so!  " 

And  though  formerly  she  had  been  to  them  but  Yvette 
Foy,  the  daughter  of  the  innkeeper  of  La  Cavalerie,  yet 
such  a  vivid  charm  of  natural  command,  perhaps  also 
such  a  fascination  of  beauty  and  the  pride  of  life,  disen- 
gaged themselves  from  this  girl,  that  the  two  young  men 


EASY  DESCENT  OF  AVERNUS 


335 


saluted  without  a  single  other  word  spoken,  and  went 
out  on  their  quest. 

With  a  long  sigh  she  laid  her  hand,  palm  downward, 
on  that  of  Jean  Cavalier.  "  We  will  wait  a  little  till  they 
have  had  time  to  obey  me !  " 

Now  it  seemed  even  to  Cavalier  that  something  had  in- 
deed departed  from  him.  The  word  was  no  longer  with 
him.  The  power  to  speak  and  to  be  obeyed  had  fled. 
True,  some  few  of  the  men  whom  he  had  commanded  in 
war,  ten  against  a  thousand,  who  had  seen  him  in  the 
van  of  a  forlorn  hope,  or  cheering  them  on  with  words  of 
hope  on  his  lips  as  they  dashed  at  their  enemy  in  the  gray 
breaking  dawn,  still  blindly  clave  to  him. 

They  did  not  know,  what  Cavalier  himself  knew,  that 
the  man  they  worshipped  was  dead.  A  woman  had  taken 
the  life  out  of  him,  and  only  the  poor  outer  shell  remained 
of  all  that  had  been  Jean  Cavalier — the  man  who,  like 
Enoch,  had  walked  with  God,  and  had  been  to  his  fellow- 
men  as  a  god. 


The  horses  went  stumbling  down  the  steep  descent  into 
the  valley  of  the  Tarn.  The  snow  had  everywhere  disap- 
peared and  the  whole  Causse  was  warm  and  breathing 
with  the  coming  of  spring.  Here  and  there  in  the  clefts 
there  was  a  deep  deposit  from  which  the  airs  blew  clean 
and  cool  as  from  an  icehouse. 

The  moon  had  sunk  behind  great  and  threatening 
clouds,  and  the  face  of  the  Larzac  loomed  up  sombre  and 
dark.  The  dissident  Camisards  escaped  with  ease  from 
the  gatehouse.  They  were,  they  had  given  out,  going  to 
Saint  Veran  to  bring  back  word  from  the  sister  village, 
and  to  see  if  anything  had  been  heard  there  of  Martin 
Foy,  whose  hostelry  of  the  Bon  Chretien  had  (to  the  great 
grief  of  the  faithful)  been  practically  closed  since  the  dis- 
appearance of  its  master. 

Whether  the  ease  with  which  the  exodus  had  been  af- 
fected was  wholly  accidental  may  have  some  light  thrown 


33^ 


FLOWER-O'-THE-CORN 


upon  it  by  a  conversation  which  took  place  behind  certain 
rocks,  advantageously  placed  so  as  to  command  the  ap- 
proaches from  the  direction  of  Millau — taking  in,  as  it 
were,  both  the  "  outgate  "  and  the  "  ingate  "  of  the  vil- 
lage. 

Two  men  stood  there,  one  wrapped  in  a  Caussenard 
cloak' — the  herdsman's  cloak  of  light  gray  wool,  which, 
when  the  man  is  young,  is  sometimes  dyed  of  a  bright 
blue,  but  was  in  this  case  of  its  natural  color.  His  com- 
panion— whose  long  unkempt  locks  fell  over  his  eyes  and 
streamed  on  his  back,  wore  only  the  ordinary  blouse  and 
knitted  trunks  of  the  workman,  shoeless  and  without 
headgear.  His  beard  had  worn  thin  and  straggling.  The 
eyes  were  piercing  and  restless  almost  to  the  point  of  mad- 
ness. 

"  You  are  sure  that  you  saw  her,  Martin?  "  said  the 
herdsman,  laying  his  hand  on  the  man's  shoulder,  from 
which  the  blouse  had  been  partially  torn  away. 

"  Shall  the  father  forget  the  child,  even  if  he  have  pre- 
pared death  and  slaughters  for  her — aye,  and  for  those 
with  whom  she  hath  chosen  to  company?  "  cried  Martin 
Foy.  "  Of  a  surety  it  was  my  daughter  and  none  other — 
the  cockatrice  whom  I  have  hatched,  the  scorpion  that 
hath  nestled  in  my  bosom!  " 

"  And  where  is  she  now?  "  said  Catinat,  who  with  his 
shepherd's  cloak  over  his  arm,  stood  back  in  the  gloom 
of  the  great  bowlder  behind  which  the  two  had  concealed 
themselves. 

The  father  of  Yvette  Foy  pointed  with  his  hand  to  the 
gatehouse. 

''  There,"  he  said,  "  there  is  she  who  has  come  amongst 
us  to  flaunt  the  golden  taches  of  her  gorgeous  apparel. 
But  in  the  revenues  of  the  wicked  lurketh  trouble,  sure 
and  sudden.  In  one  net  will  I  take  her,  and  him  who  hath 
caused  her  to  be  a  taunt  and  a  cursing,  a  byword  and  a 
reproach  among  the  nations." 

Now  Catinat  himself  could  out-Herod  Herod  at  this 
sort  of  denunciation,  but  at  this  present  he  wanted  infor- 
mation, so  without  scruple  he  cut  the  man  short. 


EASY  DESCENT  OF  AVERNUS     337 

"And  there  are  with  her — who?" 

The  face  of  Martin  Foy  took  on  an  expression  so  bitter 
and  wicked  that  even  stout  Catinat  was  afraid. 

"  The  man  is  certainly  mad,"  he  thought,  "  but  then  in 
the  meantime  he  is  useful!  " 

"  The  young  and  the  foolish,"  Martin  Foy  answered, 
"  the  sons  of  men  that  are  highest  in  place  amongst  us — 
not  yours  and  mine,  Abdias  Maurel,  because  (praise  be  to 
the  Highest)  we  have  no  sons  of  our  flesh  to  be  led  astray 
by  a  fair  woman  and  a  pleasant  flattering  tongue !  " 

"  Yonder,"  he  pointed  fiercely  with  his  hand  toward 
the  gatehouse,  "  yonder  in  the  dwelling  of  the  old  wine- 
skin Elise,  mother  of  harlots,  are  gathered  all  such  as 
dance  to  the  pipe  and  the  psaltery,  such  as  for  the  tempt- 
ing of  the  flesh  make  sweet  melody,  all  such  as  love  beauty 
and  favor  above  the  word  of  the  Lord." 

He  shook  both  hands  abroad  with  an  indescribable 
gesture  of  hopelessness. 

"  But  what  would  you?  Corn  when  it  is  green,  green 
and  bursting — tasteful  berries  that  are  still  unripe,  pulse 
green  in  the  pod,  berries  that  fill  not  the  husk — ah!" 
Here  he  fell  into  a  kind  of  chant,  "  What  saith  the  wise 
man,  '  Keep  a  sure  watch  over  a  shameless  daughter,  lest 
she  make  thee  a  laughing-stock  to  thine  enemies,  a  by- 
word in  the  city.  Behold  not  the  body's  beauty,  nor  sit 
in  the  midst  of  women.  For  out  of  garments  cometh  a 
moth,  and  from  women,  wickedness!  Better  a  churlish 
man  than  a  courteous  woman — a  courteous  woman  who 
bringeth  only  shame  and  reproach !  '  " 

"Hush,  man,  hush!"  said  Catinat,  putting  his  hand 
over  the  wild  man's  mouth.  "  Heed  not  what  is  said  of 
another  by  another.  This  woman  is  your  own  daughter 
— all  of  your  kin  that  is  left  to  you.  Shall  a  man  destroy 
his  own  flesh — surely  no,  but  nourish  and  cherish  it  ?  " 

"  Bah!  "  cried  Martin  Foy,  tossing  back  his  gray  locks, 
dank  with  dews  of  night,  "  if  indeed  she  be  my  daughter 
according  to  the  flesh,  what  then  did  Jephthah?  Did  Lot 
delay  to  flee  from  destruction  because  of  his  unfaithful 


338        FLOWER-O'-THE-CORN 

wife?  Or  did  Jehu  turn  aside  his  foot  from  treading  upon 
Jezebel  beneath  the  window  in  Jezreel  because,  forsooth, 
she  was  the  daughter  of  a  king?  Nay,  verily,  her  blood 
spurted  against  the  wall,  and  the  dogs  cracked  her  bones 
in  the  gutter  until  sundown.  And  so  be  it  with  all  wicked 
daughters!  " 

At  which  Catinat,  old  veteran  of  the  wars  as  he  was, 
whose  ears  had  heard  many  things  besides  the  crash  of 
cannon,  shuddered  as  he  listened.  But  he  did  not  again 
try  to  mollify  the  madman's  hate. 

"  It  is  well,"  he  said,  nodding,  "  or,  at  least,  it  is  your 
own  affair,  Martin  Foy!  But  tell  me  for  what  cause  are 
so  many  of  our  young  men  gathered  together?  " 

"  You  call  yourself  a  captain  in  Israel,  and  you  know 

not  that!  "  cackled  the  maniac;  "  it  is  only  that  she  who 

was  my  daughter  may  lead  them  down  to  the  King's  camp 

in  Millau,  as  fools  are  led  to  the  correction  of  the  stocks!  " 

Catinat  caught  him  by  the  wrist. 

"  Why,  then,  did  not  you  tell  me  so  before?  "  he  said, 
fiercely;  "  this  must  be  stopped,  and  instantly.  I  will  go 
and  call  out  the  guard.  These  treacherous  persons  shall 
see  that  there  are  still  faithful  men — true  Brothers  of  the 
Way — in  La  Cavalerie!" 

The  madman  caught  him  by  the  thick  tail  of  his  shep- 
herd's cloak  as  he  turned  hurriedly  away. 

"  Are  all  captains  fools?  "  he  said,  fiercely,  "  have  they 
no  heads  given  to  them  better  filled  than  those  of  cab- 
bages? Hath  God  bereft  them  all  of  wits,  in  making  of 
them  prophets?  Prophets,  forsooth!  Listen!  How 
many,  think  you,  of  these  young  men  are  the  sons  of 
those  whom  you  call  '  True  Brethren  of  the  Way?'  All 
— I  tell  you,  all!  And  how  many  of  these  fathers  would 
put  the  knife  to  the  throat  of  the  unfaithful  first-born  who 
are  there  assembled?  I  will  tell  you.  One  only!  And 
his  name?    Why,  Martin  Foy!  " 

The  wild  man  laughed,  uncontrollably. 
"Ah!    I  must  watch  for  you,  Sieur  Catinat,"  he  con- 
tinued, "  and  the  good  God  knows  it  is  hard  enough  these 


EASY  DESCENT  OF  AVERNUS     339 

bitter  nights,  with  the  white  fog  of  the  earth-frost  which 
sets  old  teeth  on  edge  and  old  bones  on  the  rack.  But 
do  I  complain?  Have  you  heard  a  complaint  from  Mar- 
tin Foy?  But  must  I  also  think  for  you,  Abdias  Maurel, 
whom  the  folk  call  Catinat?  No,  no;  let  them  go — down, 
down  into  the  camp  of  the  King.  I  will  go  with  them. 
They  shall  not  escape  from  me!  There  is  no  knife  in  the 
world  so  sharp  as  that  of  Martin  Foy  ?  He  sharpened  it 
upon  his  own  skin.    Feel!  " 

He  held  up  the  sole  of  his  foot,  and  to  calm  him  the 
other  put  down  his  hand  to  touch  the  place. 

"  There,"  he  cried,  "  there — what  think  you  of  that? 
Was  there  ever  whetstone  like  to  that?  And  the  knife? 
It  would  divide  an  ox's  neck  at  one  blow  (given  slowly 
with  a  draw,  as  I  know  how),  or  take  the  dark  fine  hairs 
off  the  swan-bill  upper  lip  of — of  my  lady  daughter!  " 

And  the  maniac  sent  peal  after  peal  of  weird  laughter 
across  the  waste,  till  in  fear  that  the  alarm  would  be  given 
prematurely,  Catinat  sprang  upon  him,  and  placed  his 
hands  across  his  mouth. 

"  Hush,  fool!  "  he  hissed,  "  do  you  want  to  spoil  all?  " 

The  wild  man  of  the  Gausses  checked  himself  and 
wagged  his  head  with  solemnity. 

"  No,  no,"  he  said,  more  calmly,  "  I  will  be  sage.  I 
forgot.  I  am  apt  to  forget  nowadays.  But  the  mirthful- 
ness  of  it  tickles  a  man's  midriff.  They  are  all  so  clever 
— these  young  men,  the  King's  fine  scarlet  officer — Cav- 
alier the  Prophet,  and  more  than  all  (choke  me  again  if 
I  laugh  too  loud)  my  dear  daughter,  the  lady  Jezebel, 
who  hath  set  up  her  altars  upon  every  high  hill,  and  done 
her  abominations  beneath  every  green  tree!  " 

He  took  his  laugh  out  in  a  gurgling  rapture. 


So  it  was  upon  the  advice  and  observance  of  a  certain 
mad  fellow,  named  Martin  Foy,  sometime  landlord  of 
the  hostelry  of  the  Bon  Chretien  in  La  Cavalerie,  that 
the   troop   of   discontented   and   disaffected   among   the 


340        FLOWER-O'-THE-CORN 

Camisards  was  permitted  to  take  their  way  in  safety  down 
to  the  King's  camp  in  Millau. 

"  And  so,"  said  Catinat,  at  the  meeting  in  the  old  hall 
of  the  Templars,  when  he  explained  his  action,  "  the  Folk 
of  the  Way  are  purged  from  those  that  devise  iniquity! 
Are  ye  content?  " 

And,  albeit,  there  were  many  sore  of  heart — fathers  and 
brethren  among  that  assembly,  they  responded  all  with 
one  voice.  "  We  are  with  you,  Abdias  Maurel,  with  you 
to  the  death,  only  for  certain  of  these  things  our  old  eyes 
are  dim !  Pardon  us  !  The  lad  was  young  and  in  some- 
wise held  our  hearts! " 


XXXIX 

THE   SPIDER'S   LAST   WEB 

THUS  it  chanced  that  at  Millau,  deep  in  the  Tarn 
valley,  where  the  Gausses  approach  most 
closely  together  and  yet  leave  room  for  gardens 
and  woodlets  and  islands  on  the  broad  still  stream,  most 
of  those  who  have  played  their  part  in  this  history  were 
collected — with  one  exception,  which  in  due  time  shall 
appear. 

There  was  (to  begin  with)  M.  le  Marechal  de  Mont- 
revel,  looking  as  unlike  a  nobleman  and  the  batoneer  of 
the  first  military  kingdom  in  the  world  as  it  was  possible 
for  a  man  to  look — broad,  ruddy  of  countenance,  blufl 
with  a  sailor's  blufTness,  a  sturdy,  out-of-doors  man, 
with  little  desire  for  money  or  great  position,  who  took 
his  pleasures  much  as  he  took  the  weather — as  they  came 
— yet  who,  like  all  his  countrymen,  looked  forward  to 
dying  a  good  Catholic  at  the  last,  and  so  getting  the 
benefit  of  such  churchly  influence  which  might  be  cur- 
rent coin  in  the  realm  of  shades. 

Next  there  was  (and  there  is  no  need  to  say  a  word 
about  her)  Mistress  Yvette.  There  was — there  could 
be,  but  one  Yvette.  Her  little  head  was  still  so  full  of 
schemes  that  she  felt  she  would  like  to  undertake  the 
love-affairs  of  the  entire  army  of  the  High  Cevennes,  to 
arrange  all  the  rendezvous,  to  solve  all  the  difficulties, 
and — to  write  all  the  love-letters.  She  was  just  so  clever, 
however,  as  not  to  know  that,  after  all,  the  world  is  not 
ruled  by  cleverness,  but  that  somewhere  behind  there 
waits  a  grand  simplicity,  at  once  childHke  and  inevitable, 
which  in  a  moment  cuts  the  knot  of  a  myriad  compli- 
cated diplomacies. 

341 


342        FLOWER-O'-THE-CORN 

But  Yvette  had  not  found  this  out,  so  she  laughed  and 
chatted  and  went  hither  and  thither,  already  a  little  weary 
of  her  coup  and  ready  to  begin  another  so  soon  as  this 
one  should  be  safely  out  of  hand. 

Then,  still  in  the  house  of  the  Marechal,  there  abode 
Flower-o'-the-Corn,  daily  growing  more  like  a  Lenten 
lily  than  the  sunburnt  cornflower  of  those  hot  days  of 
July  when  most  fiercely  the  dog-star  rages. 

Down  in  the  parade-ground,  assisted — in  the  French 
sense — by  hundreds  of  interested  and  sarcastic  onlook- 
ers of  all  arms  of  the  service,  Jean  Cavalier  and  his  men 
exercised — the  former  still  a  little  lame  from  his  wound, 
but,  in  even  the  opinion  of  his  enemies,  having  in  him 
the  makings  of  a  fine,  dashing,  upstanding  officer. 

In  the  outer  prison,  with  a  room  to  himself  and  the 
comfort  of  books,  pens,  and  paper,  sat  Patrick  Well- 
wood.  And  in  the  inner,  his  feet  fast  in  the  stocks,  or  at 
least  in  the  iron  rings  provided  for  the  recalcitrant,  was 
our  poor  Maurice  Raith,  condemned  to  death  as  a  spy, 
deserted  by  those  who  ought  to  have  succored  him, 
disowned  by  the  men  who  had  sent  him  to  do  their  work, 
and  with  only  one  heart  in  the  whole  world  to  keep  a 
warm  spot  for  him. 

It  chanced,  however,  that  that  warm-nested  heart  was 
the  only  one  Maurice  Raith  cared  about.  So  that,  in 
respect  of  affection,  there  were  many  worse  off  than  the 
condemned  spy  and  prisoner  of  his  most  Christian 
Majesty,  the  King  of  France. 

For  the  heart  in  which  his  memory  flourished  was  that 
of  Frances  Wellwood.  So  in  the  main — come  life,  come 
death — it  was  well,  and  very  well  with  him. 


"  So  far,  good,"  said  Yvette  to  herself  as  she  warmed 
her  toes  at  the  not  unwelcome  blaze.  For  even  in  the 
front  of  spring  the  crackling  of  logs  is  a  heartsome  thing 
in  the  valley  of  the  Tarn  after  nightfall.  The  high 
Gausses  are  so  near,  the  ice  yet  blue  in  their  unsunned 


THE    SPIDER'S    LAST    WEB     343 

caves,  the  snow  scarce  cleared  from  behind  the  stone 
walls  of  their  sheepfolds. 

And  for  Yvette,  so  far  as  her  own  purview  went,  all 
was  indeed  as  it  should  be.  But  she  had  to  reckon  with 
the  devotion  of  a  heart  that  for  the  first  time  had  known 
love,  which  had  not  wasted  itself  on  a  score  of  objects. 
Yet  in  this  very  constancy  was  the  peril  of  Maurice  Raith, 
and  in  the  virginity  of  the  heart  of  Flower-o'-the-Corn 
lay  the  power  of  the  evil  woman. 

The  Marshal  had  replied  out  of  the  stoutness  of  his 
nature  and  the  straightness  of  his  purpose  to  the  letter 
of  the  King-.  He  had  put  ofif  the  day  of  Maurice's  trial 
by  court-martial  till  the  return  message  from  Versailles 
should  be  received.  And  when  it  came,  lo !  even  as  he 
had  anticipated,  the  purport  was  worse  than  at  the  first. 

So  when  Flower-o'-the-Corn  came  down  one  morning 
from  her  bedroom,  pale  and  of  eye  uncheerful,  having 
slept  little,  as  she  entered  the  chamber  which  they  had 
chosen  for  a  winter  parlor  (looking  toward  the  south  and 
with  the  sunlight  ever  on  the  windows)  she  came  upon 
Yvette  apparently  sobbing  her  heart  out  over  a  great 
paper  which  lay  spread  on  the  table  before  her. 

"  It  has  come,"  she  said,  without  looking  up  and  con- 
tinuing to  sob. 

"What  has  come?"  questioned  Flower-o'-the-Corn, 
beginning  to  tremble  a  little  and  with  a  tight  chill  grip- 
ping at  her  heart. 

"  This !  "  was  the  reply  of  Yvette,  pushing  the  great 
written  sheet  across  to  her  guest. 

Frances  Wellwood  tried  to  read,  but  the  words 
changed  partners  before  her  eyes.  Again  and  again  she 
caught  the  name  of  Maurice  Raith,  once  the  words  "  the 
aforesaid  spy,"  and  toward  the  end,  "  after  the  customary 
question,  the  pain  of  death." 

She  let  the  paper  fall  from  her  hand. 

"  I  cannot  read  it,"  she  said,  "  tell  me  quickly — is  it — 
is  it — does  it  mention  my  father?" 

"  Not  your  father,"  said  Yvette,  a  little   scornfully, 


344        FLOWER-O'-THE-CORN 

"  but  the  young  officer,  the  EngHshman  whom  my  hus- 
band has  been  trying  to  save " 

"  Then  he  is  condemned  to  die  ?  "  said  Flower-o'-the- 
Corn.  She  spoke  almost  coldly,  because  of  the  beating 
of  her  heart. 

"  No,"  said  Yvette,  "  not  yet ;  but  of  a  surety  he  will 
be.  Nothing  can  save  him — nothing.  My  husband 
even  is  condemned  to  lose  his  place — it  may  be  to  lose 
his  head." 

Flower-o'-the-Corn  looked  at  Yvette.  She  saw  the 
girl  was  watching  her  every  movement.  At  such  times 
the  wits  of  women  work  quicker  and  surer  than  the 
slower  ratiocinations  of  mankind.  For  the  first  time  she 
understood.  Suddenly,  with  an  infinite  illumination,  as 
when  the  lightning  flashes  from  the  east  to  the  west — 
she  knew!  Yvette's  tears  were  crocodile  tears.  She 
hated  Maurice.  She  had  not  tried  to  save  him.  She 
hated  her,  Frances  Wellwood,  because  he  loved  her. 
She  wished  to  punish  her  for  that  which  she  had  not  done 
— nor,  indeed,  had  ever  dreamed  of  doing.  And  once 
a  woman  sees,  nothing  can  ever  shut  her  eyes  again. 
The  rift  within  the  lute  can  never  be  made  whole,  though 
there  are  various  plasters  and  ligatures  recommended 
by  the  faculty,  and  even  worn  and  certificated  by  some. 

For  a  long  moment  the  girl  thought  of  casting  herself 
upon  the  mercy  of  the  Marshal.  But  the  doubt  whether, 
apart  from  his  wife,  he  could  do  anything,  or  would  if 
he  could,  deterred  her.  And,  meantime,  Yvette  con- 
tinued to  watch  her  keenly.  She  had  seen  distrust  and 
dislike  forming  themselves  behind  the  blue  eyes  of 
Frances  Wellwood. 

In  an  instant  her  great  black  eyes  began  to  sparkle. 
She  drew  a  deep  breath  indicative  of  determination  to 
have  matters  put  on  an  intelligible  footing.  That  was 
a  game  at  which  Yvette  could  give  as  good  as  she  got, 
and  ordinarily  a  great  deal  better.  The  eyes  of  the  two 
women  met  and  stayed.  There  was  a  struggle  'twixt 
black  and  blue,  and  for  the  moment  the  black  had  the 


THE    SPIDER'S    LAST    WEB     345 

better  of  the  strife — perhaps  because  they  had  the  less 
to  lose.  But  Yvette  was  a  woman  who  would  do  as 
much  to  spite  a  rival,  or  to  revenge  herself  upon  a  man 
who  had  escaped  from  her  snare,  as  a  better  woman 
would  to  save  the  life  of  a  husband  or  a  lover. 

And  in  this  lay  her  danger,  perhaps  also  some  part 
of  her  charm.  For  some  there  be  who  are  fond  of 
snakes,  beautiful,  with  glancing  scales  and  arching  necks, 
with  tongues  that  flicker  and  eyes  like  jewels.  Such  are 
wont  to  say  to  themselves — "  Let  us  fill  our  cups  with 
costly  wine  and  crown  us  with  rosebuds.  For  to-night 
under  the  full  moon  is  the  time  to  worship  Queen  Lilith, 
the  snake-woman,  whom  Adam  had  before  the  coming 
of  Eve."  And  there  is  that  in  the  heart  of  every  man 
which  would  almost  compel  him  against  his  will  to  this 
worship.  And  if  by  good  hap  and  the  strength  of  That 
which  is  Higher  he  escape,  there  remains  yet  within  him 
a.  regret,  as  of  one  who  cannot  say, 

/  ^avg  let  no  flower  of  the  Spring  pass  me  by  I 

And  so,  looking  at  her  enemy,  recognized  for  the  first 
time,  and  knowing  her  the  stronger,  Frances  Wellwood 
said,  in  a  faint  even  tone,  "  What  would  you  have  me  do 
to  save  him  ?     Tell  me,  and  I  will  do  it !  " 

For  with  the  pitiless  and  universal  unbelief  which 
comes  to  the  mind  of  an  unsuspecting  woman  suddenly 
apprised  of  enmity,  Frances  Wellwood  saw  naught  but 
untruthfulness  about  her.  To  her  Yvette  represented 
all  evil.     She  was  its  fount  and  origin. 

In  this,  of  course,  like  all  good  women,  she  was  un- 
just. Yvette  had  not  caused  all  the  misfortunes  of  Mau- 
rice Raith  and  Flower-o'-the-Corn.  She  had  only  taken 
advantage  of  circumstances  and  (as  it  were)  helped  them 
on  from  behind. 

Still  it  was  scarcely  the  time  to  expect  Frances  Well- 
wood  to  make  fine  distinctions.  The  wind  blows  where 
it  listeth,  and  out  of  the  mere  vague  and  emptiness  of 
space  there  had  leaped,  sudden  and  complete,  armed 


346        FLOWER-O'-THE-CORN 

cap-a-pie,  the  certainty  of  her  friend  Yvette's  treachery. 
No  words  can  explain  with  what  crushing  instantaneous- 
ness  the  conviction  arrived,  nor  yet  analyze  its  eflfect 
upon  Flower-o'-the-Corn.  But  since  there  was  more 
than  her  own  life  at  peril,  she  shut  away  everything  as 
none  but  a  woman  can,  and  uttered  only  the  words, 
"  What  zvould  yau  have  me  do?     Tell  me,  and  I  zvill  do  it!  " 

It  was  the  first  clash  of  rapiers  and  Yvette,  albeit  ready 
with  her  weapon,  was  a  little  surprised. 

"  I  tell  you  to  do  what?  "  she  said,  looking  up  won- 
dering. Her  tears  had  dried  themselves  by  magic  so 
soon  as  she  saw  that  they  were  of  no  use,  as  fractious 
children  stop  crying  when  shut  in  a  garret  where  no  one 
can  hear  them.     "  What  have  /  to  do  with  the  matter? " 

"Everything!"  said  Flower-o'-the-Corn,  with  more 
than  the  sternness  of  a  man. 

"  You  forget  our  positions,"  cried  Yvette,  "  I  am  the 
wife  of " 

"  I  know,"  said  Flower-o'-the-Corn — "  of  an  honest 
man ! " 

Yvette  controlled  herself.  There  is  no  room  for  the 
more  dramatic  forms  of  passion  in  Spider-land.  Webs 
must  be  woven  mathematically.  When  one  has  to  spin 
the  ropes  out  of  one's  own  body  and  do  problems  with 
one's  head  involving  angles,  cosines,  connections,  and 
the  strength  of  materials  all  at  the  same  time,  anything 
in  the  shape  of  a  common  vulgar  quarrel  had  better  be 
avoided. 

"  Tell  me !  "  repeated  Frances,  with  the  pertinacity  of 
the  naturally  unsuspicious. 

"  Well,  then,"  said  Yvette,  "  so  far  as  I  know  (and  my 
husband  is  with  me  in  this),  there  is  but  one  thing  that 
can  save  the  life  of  the  spy,  Maurice  Raith,  and  it  may 
be  that  also  of  your  father — that  you  shall  immediately 
consent  to  be  married  to  Colonel  Cavalier." 

Flower-o'-the-Corn  paled  to  the  lips  and  then  slowly 
became  scarlet  again,  as  the  tides  of  shame  flooded  back 
to  her  cheek. 


THE   SPIDER'S    LAST    WEB      347 

"  And  tell  me  why  you  propose  this  to  me,"  she  said. 
"  I  hardly  know  the  man.  And  how  will  that  save  the  life 
of  Maurice  Raith  or  that  of  my  father,  if,  as  you  say, 
that  be  at  stake  ?  " 

For  the  fraction  of  a  second  Yvette  hesitated.  It  was 
indeed  not  so  easy  a  question  to  answer,  even  though  she 
had  been  preparing  for  it  some  time.  A  faint  flush  rose 
to  her  cheek,  on  which  such  signals  of  distress  were  not 
often  hung  out. 

"  I  will  tell  you,"  she  said,  slowly,  and  her  eyes  bright- 
ened and  became  truthful  as  with  the  light  of  an  inner 
conviction.  (Really  it  was  only  the  mental  exertion 
necessary  for  the  production  of  a  more  than  usually  fin- 
ished lie.) 

"  The  King  and  those  who  are  about  him  require  a 
sacrifice,"  she  said.  "  The  war  has  continued  too  long. 
My  husband,  your  father,  or  another — some  head  must 
fall.  Well  "  (speaking  slowly  and  with  determination), 
"  whose  head  soever  it  be,  it  shall  not  be  that  of  my 
husband.  Madame  de  Maintenon  is  angry  against  the 
English — zealous  for  the  Church.  The  English,  she 
says,  have  meddled  too  much.  But  for  my  Lord  Marl- 
borough there  would  have  been  no  war  in  the  Low 
Countries  or  in  Germany.  He  has  blown  the  embers 
into  flame,  and  now  the  English  would  stir  up  French- 
men against  Frenchmen.  Therefore  to  please  Madame 
de  Maintenon  this  young  man  must  die — one  for 
many !  " 

"  So  much  I  can  understand !  "  said  Flower-o'-the- 
Corn,  "  but  how  am  I  to  save  his  life  ?  " 

"  Thus,"  said  Yvette,  looking  at  her  straight  in  the 
face,  "  if  we  can  persuade  the  King  that  the  Camisards 
are  divided  among  themselves — if  we  can  send  him  three 
or  four  sturdy  regiments  with  full  ranks  to  fight  his 
battles,  with  Colonel  Jean  Cavalier  at  the  head  of  them 
— if  that  commander  takes  to  Court  with  him  a  young 
and  lovely  bride — we  shall  be  able  to  make  the  King 
forget  his  enmity  to  this  English  soldier,  whom  even  his 
own  people  have  disowned !  " 


348 


FLOWER-O'-THE-CORN 


"  Ah !  "  said  Frances,  steadily  on  the  defensive,  "  then 
the  King  will  pardon  Maurice  Raith  if  I — marry — Jean 
Cavalier!  Has  his  Majesty  so  expressed  himself?  Has 
he  given  the  promise?  I  cannot  be  content  with  the 
chance." 

It  was  close  fighting  now,  closer  than  hand  to  hand, 
as  only  women  can  encounter.  A  man  may  love  battle 
for  its  own  sake  and  be  a  hero,  and  without  being  a 
heroine  Yvette  loved  the  stress  of  combat,  the  push  of 
pikes,  as  never  man  did.  To  be  in  a  difficulty  insoluble 
to  all  others,  to  be  shut  in  a  seeming  hopeless  cul-de-sac 
— these  were  more  to  Yvette  Foy  than  the  utmost 
pleasures  of  sense.  She  would  rather  have  been  Satan 
plotting  against  an  omnipotent,  omniscient  ruler,  than 
have  companied  with  Michael  and  that  Oiher  when  they 
marshalled  the  stars  or  ever  the  foundations  of  Paradise 
were  laid. 

For  the  Power  that  worketh  in  darkness  has  also  ser- 
vants who  serve  him  for  love  alone.  And  among  all 
his  emissaries  he  has  none  so  useful  as  these. 

"  His  Majesty  has  not  yet  expressed  himself — that  is, 
exactly,"  said  Yvette,  meeting  Flower-o'-the-Corn's  look 
squarely,  "  but  all  the  same  it  is  so  in  effect.  If  you  will 
marry  the  young  chief  of  the  Camisard  regiments,  it  is 
clear  that  many  hundreds  who  are  now  wavering  will 
join  us  at  once.  You  are  the  daughter  of  their  greatest 
preacher,  of  the  man  who  only  the  other  day  set  all  their 
hearts  on  fire,  so  that  they  would  have  followed  him  to 
the  ends  of  the  earth.  Your  adhesion  will  help  us  enor- 
mously. Also  it  will  save  the  young  man's  life — it  will 
re-establish  my  husband's  credit,  and " 

"  In  fact,  you  offer  me  the  life  of  the  man  I  love  as 
the  price  of  my  honor !  " 

"  It  is  no  dishonor  for  any  woman  to  marry  a  good 
man,  Mistress  Frances !  "  said  Yvette,  keenly. 

"  As  you  should  best  know !  "  retorted  Flower-o'-the- 
Corn. 

Yvette  bent  her  head.     There  was  this  of  good  about 


THE    SPIDER'S    LAST    WEB      349 

her.  She  had  no  evil  to  speak  concerning  her  hus- 
band. 

"  I  do  indeed  know.  A  man  better  than  Nicholas  de 
Baume  does  not  breathe  !  " 

Then  having  as  it  were  cleared  her  conscience,  Yvette 
gave  back  what  she  got,  reposting  instantly  with  a  ques- 
tion. 

'*  You  confess,  then,  that  you  love  this  spy — this 
young  prisoner  whose  life  would  be  held  justly  forfeit  to 
the  laws  of  every  military  establishment  in  the  world?" 

Frances  nodded  gravely  and  proudly. 

"  I  love  him  !  "  she  answered. 

Yvette  smiled  a  bitter  smile,  and  rustled  with  light 
reflective  amusement  the  leaves  of  a  small  red  book  in 
which  were  various  memoranda  in  a  delicately  feminine 
hand. 

"  Some  people  have  the  art  to  forget,"  she  said.  "  I 
wish  it  pertained  to  me.  I  find  a  note  here  under  date 
of  the  twentieth  of  December.  It  concerns  the  salon  of 
the  Bon  Chretien  at  La  Cavalerie,  and  certain  things 
which  befell  there.  Mademoiselle  should  keep  a  diary — • 
as  I  do !  " 

"  I  have  no  doubt  it  is  necessary,"  said  Flower-o'-the- 
Corn,  bitterly,  in  her  turn,  "  there  are  so  many  certain 
things  to  be  remembered.  I  have  only  to  charge  my 
mind  with  a  few  things  and  those  easily  retained !  " 

Yvette  trilled  with  mocking  laughter. 

"  You  mistake,"  she  said,  sobering  a  little,  "  I  am  no 
caged  turtle-dove,  the  whiteness  of  whose  feathers  is 
sullied  by  breathing  upon  them.  I  have  lain  among  the 
pots.  The  little  more  and  the  little  less  are  equal  to  me. 
I  take  my  place  in  the  world  of  men  as  comrade  and 
equal.  Go,  little  plaything!  You,  not  I,  are  the 
featherweight — blown  by  the  wind,  held  by  the  gossa- 
mer, tethered  by  the  silken  thread  of  '  What  says  this 
one? '  and  '  What  says  that? '  For  me  I  care  not  what 
any  says !  " 


XL 

A    FLOWER    OF   EVIL 

THEN,  I  take  it,  you  will  marry  Colonel  Cav- 
alier? " 
It  was  Yvette  who  was  speaking. 

"That  will  I  never!  Maurice  Raith  would  rather  die 
twice  over! " 

"  He  is  like  to!  But,  first,  you  can  go  to  him,  and  tell 
him  that  you — you  alone  have  condemned  him  to  death. 
There  are  those  here  who  are  willing  to  save  him,  but  it 
is  not  permitted  to  them,  because  of  you!  Go!  Shall  I 
give  you  a  pass  to  Monsieur  Bechet  of  the  Parquet?  " 

She  pointed  with  her  hand  to  the  door.  There  were 
few  sights  finer,  or  more  convincing,  than  Yvette  Foy  im- 
perial in  the  righteousness  of  her  indignation. 

"And  you  say  that  you  love  him!"  she  added  in  a 
lower  tone  and  with  concentred  irony ;  "  why,  to  save 
the  man  I  loved  from  death  I  would  marry " 

"A  marshal  of  France?  "  put  in  Frances,  quietly. 

"  Well  taken,"  cried  Yvette,  good-humoredly ;  "  some 
of  them  are,  indeed,  no  handsomer  than  they  need  be, 
but  not  (as  you  well  know)  Nicholas  de  Baume.  To  save 
the  life  of  the  man  I  loved  I  would  marry  a  rag-picker,  a 
camp-follower,  a  scarecrow  out  of  the  vineyards  with  a 
yard  of  ragged  shirt  hanging  out  beneath  his  coat — aye! 
or  with  no  coat  at  all." 

"  And  what  guarantee  have  I  that  his  life  will  be 
spared,  if  I  consented  to  marry  this  man?  "  said  Flower- 
o'-the-Corn,  shrewdly. 

"  We  will  send  Captain  Raith  into  Spain  with  Billy  the 
gypsy,   his   servant,"   said    Yvette,   promptly,   who   had 

350 


A    FLOWER    OF    EVIL  351 

thought  the  matter  over,  "  and  once  he  is  in  safety,  Bet 
will  come  back  and  tell  you.  You  can  trust  her.  Then, 
and  not  till  then,  you  shall  marry  Jean  Cavalier.  Your 
father  must  remain  to  do  his  ofifice,  and  to  be  a  hostage 
for  your  complaisance! " 

"  I  agree,"  said  Flower-o'-the-Corn,  with  promptness, 
"  I  will  marry  this  man  to  save  the  life  of  Maurice  Raith. 
But,  first,  I  must  see  him  and  tell  him  why!  " 

"  As  to  that,"  said  Yvette,  with  an  air  of  reflection, 
"  you  can,  of  course,  please  yourself,  but  if  you  take  my 
advice  you  will  do  nothing  of  the  kind.  He  would  not 
believe  you!  " 

"  Of  that  I  must  take  my  chance,"  said  Flower-o'-the- 
Corn,  sadly;  "  at  least,  I  can  tell  him  the  truth." 

"  Then  I  shall  see  to  it  that  the  interview  is  granted 
you,"  said  Yvette.  "  I  will  speak  concerning  the  permit 
to  my  husband." 

Flower-o'-the-Corn  stood  looking  at  her.  A  sudden 
thought  flushed  her  cheek  with  a  new  hope.  But  in  an- 
other moment  she  knew  that  it  also  was  in  vain. 

"  But  will  Jean  CavaUer  wish  to  marry  me?"  she  said. 

Yvette  took  a  hand-mirror  of  Venice  glass,  breathed  on 
it,  and  polished  it  carefully  with  her  silken  sleeve.  (In 
some  things  she  was  still  the  "  gamine  "  of  the  streets, 
as  in  the  days  before  her  father  "  put  on  the  white  shirt," 
as  giving  in  his  adhesion  to  the  extreme  Camisard  party 
was  denominated.) 

"  Look !  "  she  said ;  "  would  any  man  in  his  right  mind 
refuse  to  marry  that?  " 

Without  thinking  much  of  what  she  was  doing,  Flower- 
o'-the-Corn  looked,  and  the  Venice  hand-glass  gave  back 
a  pale  face  of  the  perfectest  beauty — hair  in  close  ringlets, 
the  color  of  the  inner  chestnut  when  it  is  yet  scarcely 
ripe,  eyes  blue  as  a  pale  blue  sky  over  a  darker  sea,  and 
lips  redder  than  the  twin  petals  of  the  geranium. 

"  But  he  does  not  love  me,"  she  objected;  "  he  loves — 
loves " 

"  He  loves  mc,  you  mean?  "  interrupted  Yvette,  scorn- 


35^        FLOWER-O'-THE-CORN 

fully.  "  Well,  he  will  not  be  the  first  man  who  finds  it 
for  his  good  to  change  his  mind.  But  he  will  love  you 
well  enough,  do  not  doubt  it.  I  shall  have  something  to 
say  to  Colonel  Jean  Cavalier,  presently  in  the  service  of 
his  Majesty  King  Louis  the  Fourteenth,  The  young  man 
shall  appreciate  his  blessings  before  I  have  done  with  him. 
And  besides  [she  drew  herself  up  primly],  I  am  a  married 
woman,  and  it  is  highly  improper,  not  to  say  injurious, 
that  he  should  have  any  thoughts  of  me.  I  will  go  and 
tell  him  so!  " 

At  the  same  time  Yvette,  chief  of  web-spinners,  was 
not  so  easy  in  her  mind  as  she  had  pretended  to  be,  as  to 
how  the  matter  might  be  taken  by  Jean  Cavalier.  But 
she  was  not  a  lady  to  rest  upon  her  oars.  If  a  thing  had 
to  be  done,  Yvette  did  not  stand  upon  the  order  of  doing. 
She  did  it. 

Her  husband,  for  his  own  comfort,  had  become  (save 
in  very  exceptional  instances)  a  man  literally  under  au- 
thority. Like  the  centurion  in  the  Scriptures,  he  had 
"  under  him  soldiers."  But  in  his  own  person  he  trod  the 
straight  path  of  domestic  duty,  and  obeyed  the  word  that 
was  spoken  to  him  as  unquestioningly  as  if  he  had  been 
one  of  his  own  corporals.  If  he  had  been  a  man  less  care- 
ful of  peace,  it  might  have  been  otherwise.  But  as  it  was, 
Nicholas  de  Baume  loved  the  leafy  shade  and  quiet  side 
of  life.  He  had  but  a  few  years  to  live,  he  was  wont  to 
say,  and  any  quarrels  in  which  he  was  compelled  to  take 
part  must  be  those  of  his  blessed  and  most  eminently 
Christian  Majesty,  Louis  the  Great.  So  for  the  sake  of 
a  quiet  life,  in  all  unessentials  he  was  content  to  serve  his 
wife,  and  to  please  her,  judging  it  better  (as  he  also  said) 
to  anger  the  distant  tiger  than  to  irritate  the  gad-fly  which 
was  buzzing  at  his  ear. 

So,  in  the  disposal  of  her  own  time  and  of  her  hus- 
band's influence,  Yvette  had  a  free  hand.  No  child  of  a 
rich  old  couple  could  have  been  more  completely  spoilt. 
Yet  to  the  outward  view  there  was  nothing  of  the  spoiled 
child  about  Yvette.     She  was  as  complaisant  to  the  sol- 


A    FLOWER    OF    EVIL  353 

dier  on  guard,  or  to  Billy  Marshall,  remitted  from  the 
guard-house  and  set  to  the  doing  of  odd  jobs  about  the 
Marshal's  quarters,  as  to  dukes  and  counts  of  noblest 
lineage  who  came  to  offer  duty  and  service  to  the  King's 
representative  in  the  High  Cevennes, 

Yvette's  faults  were  as  the  stars  of  heaven  (or  in  a 
fresher  metaphor,  as  the  sand  on  the  sea-shore)  for  num- 
ber, but  she  had,  though  not  perhaps  so  obviously,  her 
virtues.  For  instance,  she  was  good-humored,  and  gen- 
erous, so  long  as  it  cost  her  nothing  beyond  a  smile,  and 
a  little  gold  out  of  her  pocket.  She  was  never  spiteful, 
so  long  as  her  projects  were  not  interfered  with.  She  was 
popular,  because  she  took  pains  to  be  so,  and  it  was  one 
of  her  mottoes  that  one  never  knows  when  one  may  need 
an  ally.  Yvette  did  not  disdain  to  make  friends  with  the 
Mammon  of  Unrighteousness.  She  knew  the  value  of 
money,  the  power  of  every  single  golden  shield,  stamped 
with  the  lilies  of  Bourbon.  The  limits  of  its  usefulness  she 
also  knew. 

So  when  Madame  la  Marechale  put  her  hand  upon  the 
coat-sleeve  of  the  commandant  of  the  military  prison,  and 
with  sweet  particularity  of  speech  whispered  her  wants 
into  his  ear,  that  worthy  officer  felt  his  heart  stirred  as  it 
had  not  been  by  all  the  privileges  of  that  domesticity 
which  he  had  enjoyed  for  years. 

Or  again  when  Madame,  in  dainty  furs  and  the  prettiest 
of  boots,  stood  upon  the  verge  of  a  flooded  dyke  (at  least 
two  feet  wide  and  as  several  inches  deep),  it  was  that 
squire  of  dames,  the  gallant  Bechet.  sergeant  major  and 
chief  of  the  transport,  who  helped  her  across,  and  neither 
forgot  it,  nor  spoke  of  it,  to  his  dying  day — fighting,  in- 
deed, a  duel  to  the  death  against  a  chance  defamer  of  her 
good  name.  These,  and  such  as  these,  were  Yvette's 
friends,  and  in  the  day  of  need  they  stood  close  about  her, 
a  quick,  willing,  ready,  devoted  array,  faithful  at  a  time 
when  the  Mammon  of  Unrighteousness  would  have  taken 
to  itself  wings  and  fled  away  to  the  place  appointed  for 
such  dross. 


354 


FLOWER-O'-THE-CORN 


So  when  Yvette  desired  to  speak  to  Maurice,  there  was 
for  her  a  plain  road  and  a  ready — Monsieur  Bechet  at- 
tending her  with  his  keys,  and  waiting  decorously  at  the 
end  of  the  passage  for  her  outgate,  in  order  to  show  that 
he  had  no  desire  to  overhear  what  so  charming  a  lady 
might  have  to  say  to  his  English  prisoner. 

So  in  like  manner  when  it  was  Colonel  Cavalier  whose 
presence  was  desired  in  the  Marechale's  chamber — lo! 
his  excellency  her  husband  was  ready  to  absent  himself. 
His  soldier  servant  mounted  guard  on  the  stairs  to  see 
that  Madame  was  in  no  way  disturbed.  The  very  guard 
at  the  door  told  lies  for  her  sake,  cursing  only  under  their 
breaths  to  think  that  any  Protestant  "  pequin,"  "  caniche," 
"  barbet,"  should  share  the  favors  of  so  sweet  a  lady. 

But  to  Jean  Cavalier,  marching  and  counter-march- 
ing hither  and  thither  on  the  military  exercise-ground 
down  by  the  side  of  the  Tarn,  almost  within  gun-shot  of 
his  own  old  outposts,  there  was  something  numbing  and 
strangling  in  the  proximity  of  Yvette,  the  wife  of  Nicho- 
las de  Baume,  Marshal  of  France. 

It  was  not  that  he  had  any  hatred  in  his  heart  against 
the  woman  who  had  made  him  love  her.  After  all,  he 
had  never  asked  her  whether  she  was  married  or  single. 
Only  his  heart  had  gone  out  to  her  and — God  forgive 
him,  he  loved  her  still.  Did  he  say  "  God  forgive  him  "? 
What  need?  He  never  could  be  forgiven.  He  had  sinned 
the  unpardonable  sin.  Henceforward  it  only  remained 
for  him  to  march  according  to  orders,  to  fight  as  a  mer- 
cenary in  the  army  of  the  enemies  of  truth,  and — the 
sooner  he  could  find  death  the  better  for  him.  Mean- 
time, here,  close  to  him,  within  the  bounds  of  the  same 
camp,  was  the  woman  who  possessed  him,  body  and  soul. 
And  in  the  cool  filtered  light  of  a  moist  spring  afternoon 
her  summons  came  to  him. 

He  went — as  he  would  have  gone  to  God's  judgment- 
seat,  without  either  fear  or  hope,  simply  because  the  or- 
der had  come  to  him.  He  was  in  the  mood  in  which  Fel' 
ton   wStabbcd    Buckingham,   or   Charlotte   Corday   went 


A    FLOWER    OF    EVIL         355 

straight  from  the  Girondist  circles  of  Caen  to  put  her  knife 
in  Marat. 

But  Yvette  had  other  and  softer  uses  for  her  slave. 
Knowing  that  she  did  not  by  any  means  look  her  best  in 
the  gray  semi-twilight  of  the  Tarn  valley,  when  the  sky 
is  overcast  with  the  warm  cloud-spume  of  the  south, 
Yvette,  with  the  instinctive  offensive  of  creatures  femi- 
nine, had  taken  more  than  ordinary  pains  with  her 
toilette.  A  bunch  of  scarlet  berries  was  in  her  black 
hair,  and  on  her  bosom  another,  both  placed  with  the 
instinctive  rightness  of  the  artist. 

Cavalier  entered.  The  dead  sombre  lassitude  of  his  eye 
took  on  a  glow  momentarily  brighter.  This  man  had 
wandered  in  the  gardens  called  of  Sodom  and  Gomorrah, 
where  the  apples  are  few  and  very  bitter.  He  had  learned 
the  lesson  that  upon  earth,  only  the  sinner  can  judge  of 
sm,  or  know  aught  of  its  heinousness,  or  whether  at  the 
last  it  can  be  forgiven.  Others  might  hope  that  he,  Jean 
Cavalier,  might  yet  escape  unto  Zoar  ("  I3ehold,  is  it  not 
a  little  one  ?  "),  even  as  did  Lot,  but  he  knew  that  he  was 
left  on  the  plains  of  fire  as  a  memorial  for  ever. 

F"or  in  this  matter  a  man  standeth  or  falleth  to  his  own 
God — that  is,  to  his  own  soul. 

Cavalier  stood  facing  Yvette.  She  advanced  and  held 
out  her  hand.  He  was  growing  old,  though  no  more  than 
two-and-twenty  years  of  his  age.  His  hair  was  already 
graying  and  the  freshness  of  boyhood  had  passed  from 
his  cheek. 

He  took  the  hand  of  the  woman  he  loved,  but  his  lips 
did  not  utter  a  sound.  Only  a  quiver  ran  through  his 
limbs — something,  as  it  seemed,  between  a  sigh  and  a 
shudder.  His  eye  became  fixed  and  immobile.  Well 
might  this  strange  girl  say  of  the  Camisard  chief,  "  I  hold 
him!  " 

"  I  have  sent  for  you,"  she  said,  keeping  the  bright 
spark  in  either  eye  fixed  upon  him ;  "  I  have  somewhat 
to  say  to  you." 

Cavalier  bowed  without  speaking. 


356        FLOWER-O'-THE-CORN 

"  There  is  a  young  girl  here,"  she  went  on,  choosing 
her  words;  "  I  wish  you  to  marry  her." 

Cavaher  maintained  his  attitude.  If  anything  his  face 
grew  paler  than  before,  but  the  difiference  was  so  slight 
as  to  be  almost  invisible.  He  waited  further  information 
— not  explanations.  With  these  Yvette  did  not  propose 
to  trouble  him.  She  knew  that  she  need  not  to  "  play 
line  "  with  a  man  so  simple  and  natural.  Finesse  was 
only  thrown  away.  She  would  tell  him  just  what  she 
chose.  It  was  her  will.  She  "  held  him."  That  was 
enough. 

"  For  all  our  sakes  you  must  carry  a  good  force  to  the 
King,"  she  said;  "we  must  not  leave  the  Cevennes  half 
pacified.  The  Pastor  Wellwood  is  of  great  power  among 
the  fanatics.  You  are  to  marry  his  daughter.  By  so  do- 
ing you  will  save  my  husband — more,  you  will  save  me!  " 

"  You  bid  me  to  do  this  ?  "  He  said  the  words  simply, 
like  a  schoolboy  repeating  his  instructions  to  make  sure 
of  them. 

"  I  do  bid  you!  "  she  said  as  simply,  without  the  least 
heat  or  emphasis.  The  thing  was  simply  final  for  Jean 
Cavalier,  and  the  woman  knew  it.  Whence  had  she  this 
power,  and  for  what  purpose  was  it  given? 

Yvette  felt  that  any  further  words  were  unnecessary. 
Save  for  her  natural  compassion  she  might  now  have  or- 
dered him  to  the  door  like  a  servitor.  But  of  her  own 
free  will  she  added  somewhat  by  way  of  explanation. 

"  Three  lives  are  forfeit  to  the  King — yours  as  a  rebel 
and  a  leader  of  rebels,  Patrick  Wellwood's  as  a  preacher 
and  a  fanatic,  and  that  of  Maurice  Raith  as  a  spy.  By 
marrying  the  girl  you  can  save  all  three.  The  King  has 
promised  it.     His  word  is  his  word." 

"  But  I  love  you.  It  has  not  passed  from  me — that 
which  I  told  you !    It  is  my  doom !  "  said  Cavalier. 

"  The  more  reason  that  this  marriage  should  take  place 
— were  it  only  for  my  sake!  "  interjected  Yvette.  "  Your 
mere  presence  in  the  camp  compromises  my  good  name!  " 

"  But  the  girl,"  faltered  Cavalier,  "  she  will  not — that 


A    FLOWER    OF    EVIL  357 

is,  she  may  not.  I  have  only  seen  her  once  or  twice  in 
the  presence  of  her  father.  And  even  then  it  seemed  to 
me " 

"  Well,  what  seemed  to  you?"  said  Yvette,  sharply. 

"That  she  loved  another!  " 

"  His  name?  " 

"The  young  Englishman — her  countryman!" 

"  And  did  it  seem  to  you,"  she  added,  with  an  involun- 
tary sneer,  "  since  your  faculties  were  so  observant,  that 
her  affection  found  a  return?  " 

"  It  is  difficult  to  say,"  answered  the  young  man  simply, 
**  but  such  was  the  impression  which  remained  with  me." 

"  That  Maurice  Raith  loved  her?  " 

"Yes!" 

Yvette  fastened  her  little  sharp  teeth  in  her  own  lip 
and  bit  till  a  bead  of  scarlet  appeared  upon  her  chin. 

"  He  shall  marry  her  now,  if  I  have  to  hold  the  knife  to 
both  their  throats!"  she  murmured,  in  a  fierce  under- 
tone. But  aloud  she  said,  "  This  will  save  us  all — my 
honor,  the  Marshal's  credit,  your  own  influence,  the  lives 
of  three  at  least — and  besides,  man,  are  you  blind?  She 
is  beautiful!  Certes,  there  are  not  many  in  France  who 
have  the  refusal  of  so  charming  a  bride!  " 

"  For  me,  it  is  sufficient  that  you  bid  me  marry  her!  " 
he  said,  heavily. 

Then  Yvette,  daughter  of  the  Old  Serpent,  having  at- 
tained her  purpose,  was  inclined  to  be  gracious  after  her 
kind. 

She  rose  and  stood  before  him  with  her  hand  upon  his 
arm. 

"  Why,  then,"  she  said,  "  the  sooner  you  begin  your 
love-making  the  better!  There  remains  but  short  time  in 
which  to  do  so  much." 

She  lifted  up  her  face  to  him  with  an  arch  gleefulness, 
daintily  mischievous. 

"  So,  pleasant  though  such  things  can  be  made,  I  must 
ask  you  to  cut  short  the  preliminaries.  Only  before  you 
go !" 


358        FLOWER-O'-THE-CORN 

She  stopped  and  looked  down  with  mock  modesty, 
tapping  the  parquet  floor  with  her  Httle  foot.  Cavaher 
did  not  move,  steadily  regarding  her. 

She  glanced  up  suddenly,  permitting  her  eyes  to  meet 
his  full  volley. 

"  Only — "  she  said  again,  and  again  paused,  provoca- 
tive, her  face  very  close  to  his. 

"Well,  if  you  will  not,  I  will,"  she  cried,  suddenly 
throwing  her  arms  about  his  neck. 

And  she  kissed  him  with  laughing  wilfulness. 

"  It  is  for  the  last  time — a  final  reward  of  merit,"  she 
said,  explaining  the  circumstance.  "  I  do  not  kiss  mar- 
ried men.  And — I  have  my  scruples  even  about  engaged 
ones!    Here  comes  the  Marechal!  " 


XLI 

THE    PRINCESS    OF    BUTTERFLIES 

IT  was  a  strange  interview.  It  could  not  be  said  of 
Frances  Wellwood  and  Jean  Cavalier  "  Whom  God 
hath  joined,  let  no  man  put  asunder." 

Rather  an  impish  kinswoman  of  the  Prince  of  Flies 
(the  Princess  of  Butterflies,  she  might  have  been  named, 
no  ways  amiss)  had  joined  them.  Yet  to  the  outer  eye, 
to  the  common  bruit  of  the  camp  and  covmtry  it  seemed 
a  natural  enough  alliance,  and  one  very  likely  to  recom- 
mend itself  alike  to  the  Powers  above  and  the  powers 
upon  the  earth. 

The  late  prophet  and  ex-leader  of  the  fighting  Cami- 
sards  had  been  brought  to  better  and  more  ordinary 
ways  of  thinking  by  the  daughter  of  one  of  their  greatest 
preachers — an  Englishwoman  truly,  but  no  fanatic  or 
friend  of  fanatics.  Her  father  was  a  most  learned  man 
and  of  much  authority  among  the  poor  ignorant  folk  by 
reason  of  his  having  come  from  Geneva,  their  head  place 
— where  their  Bible  (all  writ  in  French  like  a  common 
chap-book)  was  made  by  one  Jean  Cauvin,  who  was  a 
wicked  monster,  and,  ere  he  went  to  his  own  place,  in- 
flicted much  harm  on  the  Pope  and  the  true  Church. 
They  said,  moreover,  that  the  young  Englishwoman  had 
been  a  long  time  in  the  family  of  the  Marechale,  and  that 
in  time  she,  too,  would  make  her  peace  with  Holy 
Church — even  as  the  lady  Marquise  had  done,  who  now 
went  regularly  to  Mass  and  to  confession  every  Friday 
— also  thrice  a  week  in  Lent,  a  very  devout  woman. 

But  when  Jean  Cavalier  met  his  bride  that  was  to  be, 
neither  of  them  recked  of  the  gossip  of  the  province  or 
of  the  half-envious  laughters  of  the  camp. 

359 


360        FLOWER-O'-THE-CORN 

"  I  shall  have  my  work  before  me  with  the  two  of  you/* 
thought  Yvette,  "  but  it  had  best  be  got  over  at  once." 

She  sighed.  "  I  am  not  sure,  after  all,  that  it  would 
not  be  better  for  me  to  retire  to  the  country  and  grow 
potatoes." 

She  sat  a  long  time  tapping  her  white  teeth  with  an 
ivory  knitting-needle.  "  After  all,"  she  said,  half  aloud, 
"  why  should  she  not  marry  the  Englishman?  That  is, 
if  he  likes  milk-and-water." 

Her  brow  darkened  and  a  slow  smile  circled  her  lips, 
subtle  and  full  of  naughtiness.  "  No,  my  friend.  Each 
one  for  herself.  My  husband  is  an  old  man ;  I  am  young. 
Who  lives  longest  sees  the  most.  He  is  a  man,  this 
Englishman,  and  once  already  has  preferred  good  wine 
on  the  lees  to  pale  milk-and-water.  Who  knows  but 
he  may  again?  She  shall  marry  Cavalier.  Bid  him 
enter ! " 

And  she  sent  a  maid  to  request  that  Mademoiselle 
Frances,  if  she  had  nothing  better  to  do,  would  be  good 
enough  to  come  down  to  the  chamber  of  Madame  la 
Marechale. 

She  came,  tall,  pale,  of  a  refined  and  spirituclle  beauty, 
with  eyes  that  seemed  to  look  through  and  beyond  things 
and  to  see  the  invisible.  She  had  come  directly  from  her 
father's  cell,  where  she  had  been  listening  to  a  newly- 
written  reply  to  the  mistakes  and  mis-statements  con- 
tained in  Mr.  Shield's  "  Life  "  of  Mr.  Renwick  (the  late 
Mr.  James),  without,  however,  hearing  one  word  of  the 
abundant  text,  and  yet  more  abundant  commentary. 

As  the  girl  entered  the  room  she  found  herself  sud- 
denly face  to  face  with  Jean  Cavalier.  At  the  sound  of 
footsteps  Yvette  had  moved  a  little  back  till  she  stood 
in  the  shadow  of  a  curtain,  and  from  thence  she  kept 
her  great  dark  eyes  fixedly  upon  Cavalier.  At  sight  of 
Flower-o'-the-Corn  the  young  man  moved  forward 
almost  automatically,  though  not  without  a  certain  dig- 
nity, raised  her  hand  to  his  lips  and  kissed  it  with  quiet 
and  befitting  reverence. 


PRINCESS    OF    BUTTERFLIES     361 

Then  he  began  to  speak  in  a  slow,  even,  slightly 
strained  voice,  not  at  all  like  his  own  as  Flower-o'-the- 
Corn  remembered  it  among  the  men  at  La  Cavalerie,  or 
even  on  the  evenings  when  he  used  to  come  to  the  gate- 
house to  talk  to  her  father,  and — the  detail  returned  to 
her  now  with  a  peculiar  thrill — to  look  shyly  over  at  her- 
self. That  was  in  the  days  before  the  advent  of  Maurice 
Raith,  before  Yvette  Foy,  before  her  world  had  been 
made,  and,  alas  !  unmade.  The  spider  had  not  begun  to 
spin  in  those  days — or,  at  least,  the  flies  were  different 
and  the  webs  spread  in  other  parlors. 

"  I  have  the  honor  to  beg  that  Mademoiselle  will  con- 
sider me  as  a  suitor  for  her  hand,"  he  said.  "  I  have  the 
happiness  to  believe  that  my  addresses  are  not  unpleas- 
ing  to  mademoiselle's  father,  and  that,  in  time,  made- 
moiselle herself  may  come  to  look  favorably  upon  them. 
If  she  will  accept  of  me  as  her  husband,  I  promise  to  do 
all  that  any  man  can  to  give  her  a  happy  future." 

Behind  the  curtain  Yvette  smiled  a  wicked  smile.  And 
the  interpretation  thereof  was,  "  Not  thus,  but  quite 
otherwise,  did  he  make  love  to  me." 

"  But,  then,"  she  admitted,  frankly  smiling  at  the 
reminiscence,  "  perhaps  I  also  made  love  to  him.  And, 
at  any  rate,  milk-and-water  does  not  intoxicate  a  man." 
For  there  was  a  certain  careless  fairness  about  Yvette, 
though  her  sense  of  moral  perspective  was  certainly  de- 
ficient. 

Yet  Frances  Wellwood,  having  no  comparisons  to 
make,  and  only  utterly  sick  at  heart,  found  the  young 
man's  words  not  without  a  certain  native  dignity. 

"  I  thank  you,"  she  said,  simply  and  sincerely,  "  you 
do  me  too  great  honor.  According  to  the  custom  of 
your  country,  I  shall  be  satisfied  if  you  settle  the  details 
of — that  which  is  to  be — with  my  father." 

Yvette  now  came  forward  slowly  and  with  many  mean- 
ing glances,  first  at  one  and  then  at  the  other. 

"  This  also  is  according  to  the  custom  of  the  country — 
that  I  should  be  your  chaperon,"  she  said,  laughing; 


362        FLOWER-O'-THE-CORN 

"  but,  then,  my  dears,  I  am  an  old  married  woman.  I 
promise  you  I  will  sit  in  the  window  with  my  back  to 
the  settle,  and  look  out  for  my  husband.  He  likes  me 
to  throw  him  a  kiss  as  he  comes  up  the  gravel  walk." 

A  domestic  attention  which,  it  is  needless  to  relate, 
had  the  mendacious  Yvette  ever  dreamed  of  carrying 
into  practice,  would  have  driven  the  worthy  Marshal  of 
France  into  an  immediate  fit  of  apoplexy  in  the  midst 
of  his  staff. 


Jean  Cavalier  and  Flower-o'-the-Corn  did  not  avail 
themselves  of  the  benevolent,  or  malevolent,  offer  of 
Madame  la  Marechale.  For  a  sense  of  utter  heaviness 
and  desolation  weighed  upon  them  both.  The  future 
stretched  before  Flower-o'-the-Corn  like  to  the  valley 
of  the  shadow  of  death,  yet  even  at  that  moment  the 
thought  that  she  was  saving  the  life  of  Maurice  Raith 
brought  her  some  little  comfort. 

As  for  Jean  Cavalier,  in  spite  of  himself,  he  thought 
of  Yvette's  words,  that  she  would  not  kiss  him  any  more. 
For  the  power  of  a  woman  when  she  is  strong  was  upon 
him.  And,  though  he  was  about  to  be  married  to  a 
woman  high  above  Yvette  Foy,  as  the  heavens  are  high 
above  the  earth,  yet  his  heart  went  lingering  and  long- 
ing after  her.     And  help  himself  he  could  not. 

So  they  sat  and  were  silent,  each  of  them  looking 
different  ways,  till  Yvette  laughed,  saying,  "  You  two 
will  have  a  quiet  house  of  it,  by  my  faith." 

At  this  Cavalier  plucked  up  some  heart,  or  perhaps 
the  sting  of  Yvette's  scorn  pricked  him.  He  came  near 
and  took  the  hand  of  Flower-o'-the-Corn  in  his.  It  lay 
there  soft  and  moist  as  a  white  bloom  brought  from  the 
rose-garden  in  the  morning. 

But,  after  a  while,  as  they  still  sat  silent,  Yvette 
laughed  again.  "  I  see  how  it  is,"  she  said,  "  my  pres- 
ence irketh  you.     I  must  see  to  the  house.     There  is 


PRINCESS    OF    BUTTERFLIES     363 

a  salad  for  the  Marshal's  supper  which  he  will  refuse  if 
it  be  prepared  by  any  hand  but  mine." 

So  saying,  she  made  for  the  door,  glancing  mischiev- 
ously over  her  shoulder  as  she  went,  whereupon  both 
of  the  new-made  lovers  started  up  simultaneously. 

"  Do  not  go !  "  they  said,  as  with  one  voice. 

At  which  Yvette  broke  into  peal  after  peal  of  laughter, 
laughing  till  the  tears  started  from  her  eyes  and  ran 
down  her  cheeks. 

"  You  are  right,"  she  said ;  "  why  waste  time  now  in 
foolish  talk  and  such-like,  the  commonplaces  of  sweet- 
hearting?  After  to-morrow  you  will  have  all  the  rest 
of  your  lives  for  it." 

Then  she  stretched  out  her  hand  toward  them  with 
two  fingers  extended  in  a  manner  highly  episcopal. 
"  Bless  you,  my  children !  "  she  said. 


XLII 

THE    GOSPEL    OF   LOVING 

THERE  remained  for  Flower-o'-the-Corn  the  pain 
of  the  Greater  Question.  She  had  demanded 
of  Yvette  a  permit  to  visit  Maurice  Raith,  and 
even  that  Hght  mocking  spirit  could  not  refuse  the  girl 
the  thing  she  asked  so  simply,  but  with  a  very  world  of 
agony  expressed  in  her  eyes  and  the  compression  of 
her  lips. 

But  Yvette  privately  modified  her  acquiescence  by  a 
determination  to  be  present  unseen,  and  her  friendship 
with  Monsieur  Bechet  assured  her  as  to  the  possibility 
of  carrying  out  her  intention.  She  simply  gave  direc- 
tions that  Maurice  Raith  should  be  put  into  one  of  those 
"  cells  of  observation,"  provided  with  a  "  spy-hole  "  ar- 
ranged at  such  a  distance  from  the  floor  that  it  cannot  be 
closed  up  from  within,  even  if  discovered  by  the  prisoner 
whose  conduct  is  to  be  watched.  They  are  common  de- 
vices in  all  ancient  French  prisons,  and,  indeed,  are  not 
unknown  even  in  others  belonging  to  countries  equally 
civilized,  and  in  houses  of  detention  of  a  later  date  than 
the  dawn  of  the  eighteenth  century. 

Now,  Maurice  Raith,  since  the  day  when  he  had  been 
deprived  of  the  society  of  Pastor  Wellwood,  and  yet 
more  of  the  visits  of  Patrick  Wellwood's  daughter,  had 
permitted  himself  to  sink  into  such  a  state  of  melancholy 
as  the  mere  fear  of  death  would  have  been  wholly  unable 
to  create  in  him. 

He  submitted  to  the  military  perquisitions  and  con- 
frontations with  the  silent  readiness  of  a  good  soldier. 
He  was  well  aware  that,  tried  by  such  a  tribunal  as  the 

364 


THE  GOSPEL  OF  LOVING     365 

secret  military  one  which  had  been  constituted,  the  mere 
fact  of  being  taken  out  of  uniform  in  the  centre  of  the 
dominions  of  King  Louis,  was  enough  to  insure  his 
being  promptly  shot. 

He  saw  no  way  out,  but  in  itself  the  thought  of  death 
did  not  affray  him  greatly.  After  all,  one  must  die,  and 
there  is  no  quicker  or  more  soldier-like  way  out  of  the 
inevitable  than  that  prescribed  by  a  drum-head  court- 
martial  and  carried  into  execution  by  a  well-selected 
firing  party. 

No,  it  was  not  that  which  lay  heavy  on  his  heart.  Of 
a  certainty  no  !    What  then  ? 

Well,  he  did  not  believe  it,  of  course.  He  could  not. 
He  would  be  a  hound  and  unworthy  of  the  love  of  the 
honestest  and  truest  girl  in  the  world  if  he  believed  one 
word  of  the  tale.  But  it  was  whispered  that  Mistress 
Frances  Wellwood  was  of  a  certainty  marvellously  high 
in  favor  with  the  Marshal.  His  guards  retailed  the 
matter  to  him  with  such  emendations  as  occurred  to 
them.  They  thought  it  would  interest  him.  They 
knew — no  one  better — the  old  soldier's  reputation.  Of 
course,  they  all  agreed,  marriage  has  a  marvellous  effect 
on  some  men. 

Perhaps — and  then,  on  the  other  hand,  perhaps  not ! 

Maurice  angrily  bade  them  hold  their  evil  tongues, 
whereat  they  shrugged  their  shoulders,  and  marvelled  at 
his  lack  of  taste  in  gossip.  They  liked  theirs  as  they 
liked  their  wine,  hot  and  spiced. 

But,  at  all  events,  a  genuine  surprise  was  on  the  way 
to  Maurice  Raith.  He  was  moved  to  a  better  room — 
that  is,  from  the  prisoner's  point  of  view.  For  instead 
of  a  narrow  slit  shutting  off  a  slither  of  sky,  like  the 
paring  from  a  wand  cut  from  a  last  year's  pollard-willow, 
he  had  a  wide  oblong  window  in  a  recess — cross-barred 
with  huge  iron  bars,  it  is  true,  but  framing  as  in  a  picture, 
the  glorious  valley  of  the  Tarn.  His  eyes  were  filled 
with  its  sweet  serenity,  its  tranquil  beauty,  and  the  sug- 
gestions of  eternity  as  the  river,  disentangling  itself  from 


366        FLOWER-O'-THE-CORN 

among  the  hills,  passed  on,  like  the  life  of  man,  beyond 
the  ken  of  prisoners  who  only  regard  it  through  the 
barred  windows  of  life. 

The  door  of  the  cell  opened,  and  the  tall  erect  figure 
of  Patrick  Wellwood  came  in,  with  his  accustomed  gra- 
ciousness  of  dignity,  the  long  hair  now  grown  white  as 
snow,  which  once  had  glanced  as  the  raven's  wing,  and 
that  uncertain  orb,  brown  as  the  peat-water  after  a  spate 
in  the  Glen  of  Trool,  which,  to  those  who  loved  him, 
added  to  rather  than  detracted  from  the  charm  of  his 
appearance. 

Maurice  Raith  rose  to  greet  him.  His  aspect  was 
solemn,  yet  there  was  a  kind  of  exaltation  about  him, 
too,  like  one  who  is  the  messenger  of  the  King  to  a 
subject.  Religion,  true  and  undefiled,  seemed  to  enter 
every  house  with  him.  Sole  among  all  the  men  whom 
Maurice  Raith  knew,  the  chaplain  had  carried  to  the 
confines  of  old  age  the  simplicity,  the  ardors,  and, 
equally  discernible,  the  weaknesses  of  a  child.  For  in- 
stance, he  liked  sweet  things,  and  habitually  carried  a 
couple  of  lumps  of  sugar  in  his  waist-pocket. 

From  him  Maurice  learned  that  every  little  child  is 
a  Christ,  and  that  he  who  keeps  longest  that  childlike 
nature  apart  from  the  world,  and  untouched  by  those 
things  that  are  evil,  is  likest  that  young  man  of  Nazareth 
in  Galilee,  whose  name  was  entered  in  the  enrolment 
books  sent  up  to  Caesar  Augustus  by  Cyrenius,  his 
Syrian  Proconsul,  under  the  name  of  Jesus  Bar-Joseph, 
carpenter's  son,  of  the  house  and  lineage  of  David. 

Patrick  Wellwood  noways  prided  himself  upon  any 
superiority  to  other  men.  He  had  the  higher  standard 
of  comparison.  And,  since  his  Lord  and  Master  had 
withdrawn  Himself  from  His  disciples'  sight  upon  a 
golden  evening  cloud,  and  heaven  opened  no  more  to 
let  His  servants  see  Him  stand  in  the  midst  of  the  seven 
golden  candlesticks,  clothed  with  a  garment  down  to  the 
foot,  and  girt  about  the  paps  with  a  golden  girdle,  Pat- 
rick Wellwood  was  well  content  to  compare  himself  to 


THE  GOSPEL  OF  LOVING      367 

the  child  whom  his  Master  had  set  in  the  midst.  He 
drew  such  about  his  knee.  Before  he  taught  them  he 
closed  his  eyes  in  prayer,  and  asked  of  God  that  he 
should  be  made  more  like  them.  It  was  the  first  of  his 
maxims  of  conduct  that  the  wickedest  little  child  was 
better  than  the  best  man  the  world  had  seen. 

So,  burdened  with  a  weighty  message,  this  Christian 
teacher  entered  the  cell  of  Maurice  Raith.  And  though 
the  word  was  in  itself  dolorous  and  pitiful  to  the  man 
Patrick,  remembering  his  love  for  this  youth,  yet,  be- 
yond the  sadness,  the  ex-chaplain  of  Ardmillan's  regi- 
ment saw  the  massed  chorus  of  the  Church  triumphant. 
He  heard  the  gates  opened,  and  the  chants  of  the  re- 
deemed come  clearer. 

Nevertheless,  he  greeted  Maurice  briefly,  but  with  all 
the  love  of  his  serene  and  gentle  soul  speaking  in  his 
eyes.  It  mattered  nothing  that  one  of  these  clear  and 
gracious  orbs  halted  a  little,  as  if  lame.  It,  as  well  as 
the  other,  saw  visions  and  dreamed  dreams,  and  its 
owner  walked  gently,  as  if  he  feared  to  disturb  the  strain 
of  those  golden  harps,  to  the  marching  music  of  which 
he  was  completing  his  earthly  pilgrimage. 

Then  the  minister  went  mechanically  to  the  window, 
as  if  drawn  thither,  and  at  the  sight  of  the  fair  river,  he 
made  a  little  movement  of  wonder  with  both  his  hands, 
which  came  from  his  Genevan  education.  He  was  in 
no  haste  to  disclose  his  message.  He  was  old — this 
young  man  about  to  die  was  young.  He  would  lead  up 
to  that  which  he  had  come  to  impart.  Time  enough, 
and  he  smiled. 

"  *  Oh,  to  be  with  Ritchie ! '  "  he  thought,  quoting  his 
favorite  Alexander  Peden  at  the  grave  of  Richard  Came- 
ron on  Ayr's  Moss.  Then  he  added,  "  What  will  have 
come  of  my  little  lass?  She  is  too  fair  and  too  gentle 
to  be  left  by  her  lone  in  the  wilderness  of  this  world." 

He  stood  a  little  regarding  the  valley  of  the  Tarn,  as 
it  lay  in  those  wondrous  glories  of  sunset,  which,  written 
at  length,  spelt  out  the  jewelled  twelve  foundations  of 


368         FLOWER-O'-THE-CORN 

the  New  Jerusalem  to  the  writer  of  the  Book  of  the 
Revelation. 

His  lips  moved  as  Maurice  came  near  to  watch  him, 
as  he  might  have  observed  an  inspired  saint.  And,  in- 
deed, upon  the  earth  at  that  moment  there  was  no  one 
more  nearly  deserving  of  that  name  than  the  little  child, 
grown  old  but  not  weary,  who  wore  the  gray  hairs  and 
charged  the  ranks  of  the  ungodly  at  the  head  of  Ard- 
millan's  regiment. 

Maurice  did  not  at  first  hear  what  he  was  saying,  but 
presently  there  came  to  him,  like  a  breathing  from  far 
oflf,  the  words,  "  There  the  glorious  Lord  will  be  unto 
us  a  place  of  broad  rivers  and  streams,  wherein  shall  go 
no  galley  with  oars,  neither  shall  gallant  ship  pass 
thereby." 

The  old  man  shook  back  his  white  locks.  "  Words 
of  marvel !  "  he  said,  "  none  like  them.  A  dweller  in 
courts,  a  councillor  of  Kings  was  this  Isaiah — whence 
had  this  man  this  wisdom?  " 

"  Ah,"  he  went  on  without  thinking  of  Maurice,  "  I 
mind  me.  Yet  again  the  prophet  takes  up  the  word: 
*  For  the  Lord  is  our  Judge.  The  Lord  is  our  Law- 
giver, the  Lord  is  our  King.     He  will  save  us !  '  " 

He  turned  quickly  to  the  young  man,  who  stood  with 
a  certain  look  of  awe  on  his  face.  Maurice  Raith  was 
as  other  men  of  his  profesion  and  nation.  He  took  as 
little  as  he  could  of  the  stern  theology  which  was  domi- 
nant at  the  time.  But  the  life  beyond  life,  which  was 
so  real  in  this  minister,  held  and  yet  daunted  him.  A 
godly  man  is  always  great — even  to  the  most  complete 
of  Laodiceans.  Doubt  not  that  Gallio  was,  in  his  heart 
of  hearts,  immensely  impressed  with  Paul,  though  he 
laughed  all  the  more  heartily  for  that  when  his  Greeks  of 
Achaia  drew  the  broad-hemmed  skirts  of  Sosthenes, 
chief  ruler  of  the  synagogue,  about  his  ears,  and  with 
resounding  thwacks  beat  him  joyously  before  the  judg- 
ment-seat. 

"  Maurice,"  said  Patrick  Wellwood,  his  voice  sinking 


THE  GOSPEL  OF  LOVING      369 

to  a  gentle  murmur,  so  low  that  even  the  eager  watcher 
at  the  spy-hole  could  not  catch  it,  "  you  see  all  that  ?  " 
(He  pointed  as  he  spoke  to  the  dying  gold  and  purple 
and  blue  which  decked  as  with  a  garment  the  dying  day.) 

"Have  you  ever  seen  the  King  in  His  beauty?"  he 
inquired ;  "  have  you  beheld  the  land  that  is  very  far 
off?" 

Maurice  Raith  blushed,  as  if  the  reflections  of  the 
tinted  hills  were  coloring  his  face. 

"  Sir,"  he  said,  remorsefully,  "  I  am  a  soldier.  I  do 
not  know.  I  fear  I  have  not  thought  so  much  of  these 
things  as  I  ought.  But  I  was  taught  to  say  a  prayer 
when  I  was  a  little  lad  and — and  at  least — I  have  not 
forgotten  that !  " 

The  old  Christian  gentleman  nodded  his  head  slowly, 
and  his  smile  became  of  almost  incredible  sweetness 
and  wistfulness. 

"  It  is  well,  boy,"  he  said ;  "  see — it  grows  dusk  apace ! 
The  river  has  lost  its  light.  It  darkens — that  shadow 
yonder — see  how  it  creeps  up  and  up !  Only  the  tops 
of  the  mountains  are  red  and  glorious.  Maurice  Raith, 
your  life  is  like  that.  Lad  of  my  heart,  the  Land  of  the 
Final  Glory  is  not  very  far  off  from  you  this  night !  " 

And  he  turned  his  eyes  away.  They  were  not  full  of 
tears,  but  rather  held  in  them  a  rich  and  tender  glow 
caught  from  the  last  threads  of  the  sunset.  He  put  his 
hands  on  the  young  man's  shoulders.  Then  he  slid  one 
arm  about  his  neck. 

Maurice  Raith,  the  soldier,  the  staff  officer  of  my  Lord 
Marlborough,  felt  himself  turning  into  a  child  again.  It 
was  in  his  eyes  that  the  tears  stood — not  by  any  means 
those  of  fear,  but  to  think  that  a  man  so  great  and  holy 
should  be  so  tender  to  such  as  he. 

"  Then  I  am  to  die,  sir?  "  he  said. 

The  old  minister  paused  before  he  answered.  He 
seemed  in  that  moment  to  pass  from  the  Old  Testament 
to  the  New. 

"  Let  not  your  heart  be  troubled,"  he  said  very  gently, 


370        FLOWER-O'-THE-CORN 

divining  the  thought  of  Maurice  Raith's  inmost  soul. 
"  He  who  said  '  Fear  not,  Uttle  flock ! '  will  raise  up  an 
arm  for  our  little  one  to  lean  on  when  this  old  sapless 
fagot  shall  fall  to  the  ground." 

For  Patrick  Wellwood,  knowing  nothing  of  spiders, 
their  webs,  their  spy-places,  and  casual  spinnings,  moved 
simply  and  largely  among  such,  thinking  the  best  and 
doing  the  best,  even  as  from  Galilee  to  Judaea  and 
athwart  Samaria,  passed  that  Carpenter's  Journeyman 
who  was  in  all  things  his  Master. 

So,  knowing  that  this  young  man  loved  his  daughter, 
he  knew  also,  that  being  told  he  must  die,  his  first  thought 
would  assuredly  be  of  her. 

"  There  is  my  aunt  at  Castle  Raith,"  said  Maurice, 
slowly,  as  if  meditating.  "  She  also  is  an  angel  of  God — 
with,  in  addition,  the  sharp  tongue  of  a  woman.  But  she 
would  love  her.    If — if  this  should  happen " 

He  stopjjed  for  want  of  fitting  words.  He  had  not  the 
minister's  gift — the  gift  of  those  who  read  much  in  the 
great  Book  of  Style.  Ah,  if  they  only  knew,  those  others, 
they  would  read  the  Book  for  that  alone — as  contrary- 
wise  many  a  poor  tired  soul,  travel-tired,  and  tossed 
about,  does  for  other  profit — sometimes,  alas!  profitless, 
because,  after  all,  a  book  is  only  a  book. 

"  Yes,"  said  the  minister,  "  it  is  well  thought  on — but 
yet  I  know  not.  She  might  find  this  Christian  woman 
of  whom  you  speak  a  very  Naomi,  and  Frances  might  be 
in  her  need  a  Ruth  to  cleave  unto  her.  But,  though  you 
are  a  young  man,  it  is  not  hid  from  you,  that  sometimes 
the  best  women  are  not  the  better  of  being  too  contin- 
ually together.  Their  Zion  songs  are  set  on  different 
keys,  and  the  result  is  the  discord  which  makes  even  sweet 
bells  jangle  out  of  tune!  " 

He  thought  a  little  while,  looking  out  at  the  twilight 
and  the  deep  sapphire  blue  of  the  mountain-tops  against 
a  golden  orange  mist. 

"  No,"  he  said,  "  it  is  better  to  leave  it  to  the  Lord.  I 
have  a  little  money  in  safe  hands — not  much — but  enough, 
which  would  be  hers  if  anything " 


THE  GOSPEL  OF  LOVING      371 

"  But  listen,  I  have  no  one — no  one,"  broke  in  Maurice 
Raith  eagerly;  "  my  aunt  has  her  own  dowry,  slender,  but 
sufficient,  and  the  use  of  Castle  Raith  till  she  dies.  Let 
it  be  my  happiness  to  leave  all  I  possess  to — her  whom  I 
love — who  has  taught  me  to  love." 

"  No,  no — I  beseech  you,"  said  the  minister,  almost 
shrinkingly. 

"It  is  a  safeguard,  and,  moreover,  it  is  my  last  re- 
quest! "  said  the  young  man.  "  Do  not  deny  me.  It  is 
all  I  ask  of  you." 

He  sat  down  and  wrote  the  simplest  of  wills,  leaving 
everything  of  which  he  died  possessed  to  Frances  Well- 
wood,  sole  daughter  of  Patrick  Wellwood,  late  chaplain 
in  Ardmillan's  regiment.  My  Lord  Marlborough  was  to 
execute  the  will,  the  titles  and  values  being  presently  in 
his  hands. 

"  He  has  the  repute  of  being  one  who  grasps  at 
money,"  said  Maurice,  looking  up,  "  but  I,  who  have  the 
best  reason  to  know,  think  him,  in  all  private  afifairs,  a 
man  of  strict  honor." 

It  was  with  some  difficulty  that  the  chaplain  was  in- 
duced to  put  the  simple  holograph  into  his  pocket,  shak- 
ing his  head  meantime  and  sighing. 

"  It  misdoubts  me  sore,"  he  said,  "  that  this  is  a  dis- 
trusting of  God's  providence." 

Maurice  saw  his  opportunity. 

"  Yes,"  he  said,  "  it  may  be  so  when  there  is  only  a 
man's  self  concerned,  but  what  does  your  Scripture  say 
of  these  little  ones,  '  whose  angels  do  always  behold  the 
face  of  God'?" 

The  favorite  quotation  of  his  aunt  came  to  Maurice 
with  a  happy  fitness. 

The  minister's  face  changed  suddenly.  It  was  as  if  a 
lamb  of  the  flock  had  suddenly  rebuked  the  shepherd. 
Almost  mechanically  he  gave  the  answer. 

"  '  Woe  unto  him  through  whom  the  ofTence  cometh. 
It  were  better  for  him  that  a  millstone  were  hanged  about 
his  neck,  and  he  were  cast  into  the  sea,  than  that  he  should 
offend  one  of  these  little  ones! '  " 


372        FLOWER-O'-THE-CORN 

Patrick  Wellwood  thought  a  while,  his  eyes  misty  with 
the  tears  that  now  welled  up  for  the  first  time. 

"  Habet!  "  he  said. 

It  was  the  old  fencing  phrase  when  an  adversary's 
thrust  got  home,  remembered  from  the  time  when  he  was 
an  adept  in  that  exercise.  He  turned  to  Maurice  Raith 
with  a  new  feeling  in  his  heart  toward  him — respect  be- 
ing now  superadded  to  the  former  tenderness. 

"  You  have  done  that  which  the  young  rich  man  would 
not  do,"  he  said,  "  you  have  given  freely  all  that  of  which 
you  are  possessed.  Verily,  saith  the  Lord,  you  are  not 
far  from  the  Kingdom  of  Heaven!  " 

Maurice  Raith  smiled  sadly,  shaking  his  head  with  the 
strange  lucidity  of  those  to  whose  lives  a  period  is  put. 

"  Ah,"  he  said,  "  I  have  only  given  it,  being  about  to 
die,  to  the  woman  I  loved,  that  she  might  not  utterly  for- 
get me.  For  the  sake  of  human  love  alone  I  have  done 
this  thing!  " 

"  Of  that,"  said  the  minister,  "  I  take  it  not  on  myself 
to  judge.  I  leave  God  (who  is  Love)  to  redd  up  the  mat- 
ter. Methinks  He  will  not  be  backward  to  say,  '  To  him 
who  loved  much,  much  also  shall  be  forgiven! ' " 


XLIII 

EVE    AND    LILITH 

THE  door  of  the  cell  opened  noiselessly  and 
Flower-o'-the-Corn  stood  regarding  her  father 
and  her  lover.  The  old  man  was  bestowing  upon 
the  younger  in  all  solemnity  the  same  Aaronic  benedic- 
tion which  in  superfluity  of  naughtiness  Yvette  had  pro- 
nounced mockingly  over  Cavalier  and  herself,  as  a  witch 
might  repeat  the  creed  backward. 

At  the  spy-hole  above  the  eye  of  the  silent  watcher  be- 
came more  fixed  and — doubt  not — the  smile  more  con- 
temptuous. For  the  red  pulsating  heart  of  the  mystery 
was  now  to  be  opened  in  section,  and  Yvette,  having 
schemed  so  much  and  lied  so  often,  would  have  felt  that 
she  had  spent  herself  in  vain,  had  she  not  been  present  to 
witness  the  parting  which  the  cunning  of  her  brain  had 
brought  about  and  the  glamour  of  her  beauty  hastened. 

For  that  was  not  true  which  she  had  said  to  Jean  Cav- 
alier, that  Patrick  Wellwood  knew  and  approved  of  the 
marriage.  The  two  men  who  stood  there  hand  in  hand 
were  ready  for  death,  come  when  it  might.  They  would 
have  shared  it  between  them  simply,  like  a  draught  of 
water.  But  this  delicate  woman,  walking  daintily,  clad  in 
scarlet,  had  a  far  more  terrible  thing  than  dying  in  her 
heart. 

She  was  indeed  to  take  away  the  bitterness  of  death 
from  Maurice  Raith,  but  how?  By  putting  something  in 
its  place  which  would  be  a  thousandfold  more  bitter. 

Now  in  the  great  things  of  life  (which,  be  it  known  to 
all,  are  not  battle,  murder,  and  sudden  death,  but  hope 
deferred,  love  rejected,  faith  broken,  the  dread  common 

373 


374        FLOWER-O'-THE-CORN 

ill  of  child-bearing,  the  yet  more  common  awful  ill  of 
children  who  bring  down  gray  hairs  in  sorrow  to  the 
grave),  women  are  a  thousandfold  more  brave  than  men. 
When  the  stones  of  life's  sanctuary,  the  precious  stones 
which  make  the  temple  of  our  happiness,  are  poured  out 
in  the  top  of  every  street,  who  sit  with  their  heads  be- 
tween their  knees?  We  men.  And  who  are  they  that, 
with  bared  arm  and  the  set  face  of  workmen  needing  not 
to  be  ashamed,  labor  to  build  up  again  the  Temple  de- 
spoiled, the  Holy  of  Holies  profaned,  the  hearthstone 
made  desecrate?  The  zvomen  whom  God  hath  given  us! 
Bow  the  head,  spread  abroad  the  hands,  cast  dust!  They 
are  greater  than  we,  and  it  is  meet  and  good  that  we 
should  be  ashamed  before  them. 

So  in  That  Day,  according  to  the  Word,  shall  many 
an  unbelieving  husband  be  sanctified  by  the  faith  of  the 
wife — saved  by  it,  even  from  his  own  weakness  and  from 
his  own  sin.  And  to  this,  not  the  fool  or  the  weakling, 
but  the  strong  men  and  the  good  men  shall  say,  "  Amen." 
And  for  this  also  shall  these  women  be  arrayed  in  the 
robes  of  fine  linen  clean  and  white,  which  is  the  right- 
eousness of  the  saints.  Come  up  higher,  Frances  Well- 
wood!  Though  you  come  to  your  lover's  prison  having 
upon  you  the  scarlet  robe  of  Delilah,  the  woman  who 
hath  pleased  many,  yet  about  you  is  the  whiteness  of  that 
City,  which  one  sometimes  sees  in  a  dream  of  the  night — 
faint,  far,  and  impossible  to  be  reached,  beyond  the  con- 
fines of  the  Lands  of  Sleep  ;  or,  more  rarely,  perhaps,  but 
also  more  vividly,  as  from  a  high  city  window  we  look 
over  the  hives  of  mankind  at  some  thrilling  and  majestic 
dawn,  pregnant  with  Eternity,  the  very  fear  in  our  hearts 
sworn  evidence  of  the  existence  of  a  God. 

At  sight  of  Frances  Maurice  Raith  and  Patrick  Well- 
wood  faced  each  other  a  moment,  each  imploring  the 
other  to  silence.  They  thought  that  the  girl  before  them 
did  not  know ! 

And  she  came  forward  smiling;  so  that,  being  but  men, 
they  were  deceived,  and  did  not  see  the  under-glitter  of 


EVE    AND    LILITH  375 

tears  in  her  eyes.  But  the  woman  at  the  espial-niche  in 
the  wall  saw.  For  she  was  a  woman,  and,  according  to 
her  condition,  wise. 

Yet  the  old-man  child  beneath  and  his  daughter,  the 
maid-child,  standing  in  the  doorway,  were  wiser  than 
she.  For  when  the  eternal  day-books  are  added  up,  and 
the  ledgers  checked,  only  the  simple,  the  singly-loving, 
the  utterly  true,  shall  be  accounted  wise.  Of  whom  were 
Frances  and  Patrick  Wellwood.  And  these  two  bade 
fair  to  draw  after  them  into  that  same  wisdom  of  sim- 
plicity one  Maurice  Raith,  sometime  a  light-heart  ad- 
venturer and  follower  of  a  camp  where  simpHcity  and 
singleness  of  heart  were  but  little  in  favor. 

Maurice  sprang  up  and  came  toward  Flower-o'-the- 
Corn,  his  arms  outspread.  She  held  back  a  little  from 
him,  with  a  gesture  which  he  took  for  shyness  in  the  pres- 
ence of  her  father,  but  which  the  watcher  up  above  knew 
to  be  the  thought  that  soon  she  must  break  the  news  to 
her  lover — that  she  stood  before  him  the  affianced  of  an- 
other. 

Nevertheless,  because  the  heart  was  not  yet  strong 
enough  within  her,  and  also  because  she  salved  her  con- 
science with  the  thought  that  the  time  was  not  yet,  she 
put  up  her  lips  to  be  kissed  as  their  custom  had  been  at 
meeting  and  parting. 

"  For  this  time  I  will  leave  you,  my  son,"  said  Patrick. 
"  I  think  there  is  nothing  more  to  be  said.  The  God  of 
Jacob  bless  you  now." 

"  And  aftcnvard,"  he  added,  beneath  his  breath,  as  he 
turned  and  went  out. 

Up  at  the  watcher's  coign  of  vantage  the  dark  subtle 
eyes  glittered.  Never  had  the  Spider,  sitting  in  the  dark- 
ness, assisted  at  a  scene  which  interested  her  so  much  as 
this.  Better  than  either  of  them,  she  knew  what  was 
coming.  Like  some  baleful  beautiful  divinity,  she  sat 
there  with  the  cords  of  destiny  which  she  herself  had  spun 
in  her  hand,  till  the  moment  when  she  would  break  them 
ofif  short,  or  spitefully  ravel  them  into  a  hopeless  tangle. 


37^ 


FLOWER-O'-THE-CORN 


As  the  minister  went  out  the  guardian  of  Maurice's 
prison,  who  had  been  warned  to  care  well  for  his  comfort, 
entered.  He  set  on  the  little  table  along  with  the  ink- 
stand, the  goosequills,  and  the  sheets  of  paper,  the  two 
great  candelabra,  which  Monsieur  Bechet  only  supplied 
to  his  best-paying  patients.  Then  he  went  and  brought 
in  from  some  store-place  an  armful  of  fagots,  part  of 
which  he  put  on  the  andirons,  pulled  down  the  massive 
grille  to  make  them  burn  better,  and  with  the  well- 
trained  accuracy  and  silence  of  a  domestic  servant  be- 
took himself  out. 

Maurice  Raith  and  Flower-o'-the-Corn  were  left  alone. 
Alone,  that  is,  save  for  a  pair  of  interested  eyes,  great 
and  dark,  which  watched  them  narrowly  from  among  the 
rafters.  Verily  the  wise  man  spoke  truth  when  he  said 
that  the  spider  taketh  hold  with  her  hands  and  is  in  King's 
palaces. 

Each  of  these  young  people  thought  that  the  one  held 
a  great  secret  close  shut  up  from  the  other.  Maurice 
imagined  that  Flower-o'-the-Corn  did  not  know  that  he 
was  to  die.  Frances,  on  the  other  hand,  thought  that  she 
alone  knew  that  he  was  to  live.  In  these  circumstances  it 
is  hard  to  talk  of  indiflferent  things,  harder  even  to  return 
upon  the  inexhaustible  lover's  litany  of  mutual  unworthi- 
ness,  or  Gaudeamus  of  happy  admiration. 

So  instead  they  sat  hand  in  hand  on  the  seat  by  the 
window-sill.  The  lighting  of  the  candles  had  almost  shut 
out  the  prospect.  But  still  there  lingered  a  faint  luminous 
glow,  orange  with  an  aerial  russet  through  it,  splashed 
broadly  behind  the  Gausses. 

"  Yonder,"  said  Flower-o'-the-Gorn,  softly  pointing  to 
where  over  the  Larzac  the  silver  throne  of  Gassiopeia 
glittered,  "  up  yonder  is  where  we  first  loved  each  the 
other." 

Then  in  a  moment  it  came  to  her  that  she  was  cruel  to 
call  up  such  memories,  considering  what  she  had  come  to 
tell.     But  Maurice  had  his  answer  ready. 

"  No,  little  one,"  he  said,  tenderly,  "  not  there,  but  far 


EVE   AND    LILITH  377 

to  the  northward,  under  the  paws  of  the  bear!  There  is 
where  I  first  loved  you — on  the  Xamur  cornfield,  when 
the  very  cornflowers  were  not  half  so  blue  as  your  eyes." 

He  sighed,  thinking  that  he  must  tell  her  now. 

And  she  sighed,  thinking  that  now  she  must  tell  him. 

While  above  them,  at  her  place  of  espionage,  Yvette 
smiled  a  yet  more  bitter  smile. 


It  had  to  come  at  last,  and  it  came  in  this  wise.  Had 
Frances  been  the  spinner  of  webs,  who  plotted  her  plots, 
and  carried  them  out  to  the  letter,  who  laid  her  lines  by 
rule  and  told  her  lies  by  measure,  every  word  would  have 
been  studied  beforehand,  each  efifect  calculated,  each 
touch  employed  with  the  skill  of  an  artist  in  emotions. 

But  it  was  not  so  with  Frances  Wellwood. 

All  suddenly  she  fell  down  before  Maurice,  laid  her 
head  upon  his  knees,  and  burst  into  tears. 

I  am  not  sure,  after  all,  that  Yvette  could  have  done 
better.  Indeed,  that  lady  who,  among  her  few  virtues, 
retained  a  certain  feeling  for  fair  play  and  could  appre- 
ciate a  well-played  scene,  clapped  the  points  of  her  fingers 
daintily  together  in  token  of  silent  applause.  The  gods 
were  satisfied,  or,  at  least,  the  expert  critic  who  occupied 
their  gallery. 

"  Frances,  Frances,  what  is  it  ?  "  cried  Maurice,  in 
quick  surprise;  "  have  they  told  you?    Do  you  know?" 

The  girl's  sobs  alone  answered  him. 

"  Dearest,  I  do  not  care,"  he  cried,  losing  all  dignity; 
"  for  myself  it  matters  nothing,  so  long  as  you  are  well 
cared  for!  In  time  you  will  be  happy.  I' — I  have  been 
talking  it  over  with  your  father!  " 

Frances  sat  up  suddenly,  and  gazed  at  him  in  amaze- 
ment, the  tears  still  running  freely  down  her  cheeks. 

"  Not  matter?  "  she  gasped,  utterly  taken  aback.  "  if — 
if — I  am  well  taken  care  of.  You  have  been  talking  it 
over  with  my  father?  " 


378        FLOWER-O'-THE-CORN 

"  My  dearest,"  he  said,  "  believe  me,  a  soldier  has 
often  to  face  as  much.  I  have  stood  a  dozen  times  where 
now  I  stand.  I  am  a  man,  remember.  What  does  any- 
thing matter  to  me,  a  soldier,  so  long  as  you  are  safe  and 
happy.  And,  after  all,  you  will  be  well  cared  for,  and, 
though  all  will  not  be  for  us  as  we  had  expected — yet, 
you  know,  dearest,  things  seldom  turn  out  as  one 
hopes " 

Flower-o'-the-Corn  rose  to  her  feet  and  stood  back 
from  him.  He  was  certainly  taking  the  matter  but  little 
to  heart,  if  he  were  willing  so  easily  to  resign  her  to  an- 
other. Could  it  be— that  which  Yvette  had  so  strenu- 
ously instilled  into  her — that  all  men  were  alike  in  this 
thing?  That  their  love  was  only  for  a  little — the  froth 
upon  the  poured  wine,  that  winks  a  moment  and  is  gone 
— the  flower  of  the  poppy  which  the  first  gust  of  the  mis- 
tral sends  skipping  over  the  parapet  into  the  Rhone? 

With  other  men,  perhaps,  it  might  be  so,  but  not  with 
Maurice  Raith.  She  softened  to  him  even  as  she  thought. 
She  had  tried  him. 

He  went  on  more  firmly,  assured  that  she  knew  all. 

"  After  the  second  letter  from  the  King,"  he  contin- 
ued, "  I  could  expect  nothing  else.  It  would  have  been 
the  same  if  an  oiBcer  of  the  Marechale  de  Montrevel,  or 
any  soldier  of  King  Louis,  had  been  taken  in  time  of  war 
assisting  and  stirring  up  a  rebel  Catholic  population  in 
England  or  Ireland.  Yes,  and  your  father,  the  truest, 
simplest,  justest  man  I  have  ever  known,  would  have 
judged  it  right.  I  myself  would  have  judged  it  right!  I 
must  die,  that  is  all." 

As  he  was  speaking  the  face  of  the  girl  had  gradually 
run  through  a  whole  series  of  expressions — wonder,  lack 
of  comprehension,  doubt,  fear,  and,  lastly,  the  most  ab- 
solute terror,  as  she  realized  that  she  had  yet  all  her  work 
to  do.  He  only  knew  that  he  must  die,  not  that  he  was 
condemned  to  live  without  her.  Frances  owned  to  her- 
self that  if  the  choice  had  then  been  given  to  her,  she 
would  have  chosen  to  die  with  him.     But  she  had  passed 


EVE   AND    LILITH  379 

her  word,  made  her  choice  to  save  him.  It  was  for  his 
sake,  and  she  must  go  through  with  it. 

"Frances,  dearest,  be  brave!"  he  said,  smiHng,  and 
catching  her  in  his  arms,  thinking  that  she  was  going  to 
faint.  "  See, — I  am  brave.  Help  me  also  to  be  brave. 
For  at  a  time  like  this  a  man  always  depends  upon  the 
woman  he  loves.  You  will  not  fail  me,  I  know,  best-be- 
loved !  " 

There  was  the  light  of  a  great  love  on  the  face  of 
Flower-o'-the-Corn. 

"No,"  she  said;  "no,  as  God  sees  me,  I  will  not  fail 
you.  You  shall  not  die.  I  have  sworn  it.  I  will  give  my 
life  for  yours.  It  is  accepted — this  my  sacrifice.  The 
King  has  given  his  sanction.  You  do  not  understand! 
And — and — oh,  I  do  not  know  how  I  am  to  tell  you!  " 

And  up  in  the  right-hand  corner,  behind  the  dusky 
beams,  in  her  hidden  place  of  espial,  Yvette  rejoiced. 
She  felt  repaid  for  all  her  difficulties  overcome,  all  her 
webs  spun  and  broken,  all  her  failures  and  all  her  mis- 
takes. These  two  whom  she  hated  were  drinking  together 
a  full  cup,  vinegar  and  gall  mingled  with  the  waters  of  a 
Marah  thrice  embittered. 

"What  is  it,  beloved?"  said  Maurice;  "you  speak  of 
saving  me,  of  giving  your  life  for  mine.  Of  that  I  know 
nothing.  I  am  to  die!  It  is  the  daily  chance  of  a  soldier 
— hard,  certainly  for  me,  who  have  so  recently  found  you, 
but  otherwise — well " 

"Oh!  you  do  not  understand,  you  will  not — "  cried 
poor  Flower-o'-the-Corn,  sobbing  her  heart  out  on  his 
breast,  "  the  price  is  that  I  am  to  marry  Jean  Cavalier. 
They  have  made  me  promise — I  am  to  do  it  to  save  your 
life — but  not  till  you  are  safe  over  the  frontier,  and  on  an 
English  ship.  Only  I  am  to  remain  in  their  hands  as  a 
hostage!  " 

Maurice  stood  suddenly  erect,  and  clenching  his  fist 
shook  it  at  the  unanswering  heavens,  which,  indeed,  had 
little  enough  to  do  with  the  matter. 

"  It  is  that  zvoman! "  he  cried,  fiercely.  Then  he  added 
in  a  lower  tone,  "  It  serves  me  right!  " 


380        FLOWER-O'-THE-CORN 

"  What  woman?  "  asked  Flower-o'-the-Corn,  for  a  mo- 
ment stopping  her  sobs  to  look  up  in  his  face,  her  agony 
mixed  with  wonder. 

"  That  " — (he  paused  on  the  verge  of  a  word  plain  and 
Biblical — while  at  her  spy-hole,  Yvette,  who  had  a  ready 
if  somewhat  perverted  sense  of  humor,  was  compelled  to 
push  her  handkerchief  into  her  mouth  and  bite  hard  to 
keep  down  her  laughter) — "  that  woman! "  he  repeated 
again,  finding  no  satisfactory  paraphrase.  "  She  has  laid 
a  trap  for  all  our  feet.  We  have  been  as  gulls  before  her, 
as  geese  on  the  mere,  that  follow  the  decoy  to  their  own 
destruction." 

He  struck  his  hand  hard  against  his  head. 

"  Oh,  what  a  fool,  Maurice  Raith,  what  an  utter  fool!  " 

And  he  was  silent  in  the  contemplation  of  his  own 
folly.  It  was  certainly  a  large  subject,  and  its  adequate 
representation  even  to  himself  might  have  taken  some 
time. 

But  Frances  interrupted  him. 

"  You  are  wrong,  Maurice,"  she  said,  quietly,  "  if  you 
mean  Yvette;  she  has  been  kind — more  than  kind.  She 
has  taken  all  the  trouble  of  obtaining  a  conditional  par- 
don. You  will  be  sent  under  escort  of  the  Marshal's 
troops  over  the  frontier  into  Spain.  Your  servant  Billy 
Marshall  and  his  wife  Bet  will  go  with  you,  and  as  soon 
as  you  are  safe  on  an  English  ship  at  Barcelona  (where 
there  are  plenty),  one  of  these  two  will  bring  me  back  a 
message  that  you  are  safe.  Then,  and  only  then,  I  will 
fulfil  my  promise!  " 

She  smiled  up  at  him  through  her  thickening  tears. 

"  Do  not  be  afraid  for  me,"  she  said,  "  he  will  be  kind 
to  me.  He  is  a  good  man!  I  do  not  wish  you  to  be 
grieved!    That  hurts!  " 

And  then,  still  smiling,  her  strength,  wonderful  up  to 
this  point,  failed  her  for  the  first  time,  and  she  fainted 
quietly  away  in  his  arms. 


XLIV 

"KISS   ME,    MY   HUSBAND" 

PERHAPS  it  was  that  the  Spider  had  had  enough  of 
watching  the  game  which  she  herself  played  so 
matchlessly  well.  Barring  one  or  two  points  at 
the  first,  she  could  not  but  feel  that  Flower-o'-the-Corn 
had  done  no  justice  to  her  part.  Yvette  could  have 
brought  Maurice  to  the  agony  with  so  much  more  skill, 
and  as  to  the  fainting — it  is  really  too  antiquated — the 
resource  of  the  ill-trained  amateur.  Bah!  she  would  go 
down  and  play  the  scene  out  herself. 

So  without  more  thought  than  the  mere  resolution, 
Yvette  drew  her  capuchin  over  her  head,  assumed  (as 
easily  as  she  had  donned  the  hood)  an  air  of  anxiety  and 
haste,  and  descended  into  the  chamber  of  Maurice  Raith's 
imprisonment. 

The  faithful  Monsieur  Bechet  was  lingering  at  the  far 
end  of  the  corridor,  his  hands  in  his  pockets,  thinking 
doubtless  his  own  thoughts.  He  was,  nevertheless,  keep- 
ing a  sharp  eye  upon  all  exits  and  entrances — though 
purely,  of  course,  from  a  professional  point  of  view. 
Really  he  was  only  interested  in  a  little  cupboard  in  which, 
along  with  ropes,  halters,  and  thumb-screws,  he  kept  sun- 
dry curious  waters  for  the  solace  of  his  lonely  hours  of 
waiting  upon  the  pleasure  of  others.  He  had  made  more 
than  one  visit  there  already  and  the  key,  a  delicate  little 
steel  engine  of  much  mechanical  intricacy,  was  already  in 
his  hand,  when  above  him  he  heard  the  light  footsteps  of 
Madame  la  Marechale  descending  the  stairs  from  her 
chamber  of  espionage. 

Now  M.  Bechet  was  much  too  well  bred  and  too  thor- 

3S1 


382        FLOWER-O'-THE-CORN 

oughly  in  subordination  to  his  superior  officers  (and  their 
superior  wives)  to  ask  any  questions  as  to  the  success  of 
her  projects.  He  was  there  to  lock  and  unlock  doors,  and 
to  await  the  lady's  pleasure.  So  long  as  his  prisoners  re- 
mained under  his  roof  and  on  the  right  side  of  his  stan- 
chioned doors,  till  such  time  as  he  received  due  receipt 
and  discharge  for  their  bodies,  dead  or  alive — that  was 
all  Monsieur  Bechet,  as  a  good  guardian  of  the  King's 
peace,  cared  for. 

Accordingly  he  admitted  Yvette  with  a  simple  bow  and 
smile  into  the  chamber,  which  since  Maurice  entered  into 
it  she  had  regarded  only  from  above. 

A  thought  struck  her  as  she  descended.  What  she  had 
done,  others  might  do  also — an  officer  of  police  was  only 
a  policeman  after  all. 

"  Stay  here,"  she  said;  "  I  shall  not  be  long!  And  per- 
haps I  may  have  occasion  to  return  again  above.  In  that 
case  I  shall  know  the  way  myself!  " 

For  Mistress  Yvette,  having  spied  so  well,  did  not  in- 
tend to  furnish  a  free  exhibition  to  any  other — save  and 
except  the  two  for  whose  benefit  she  was  about  to  take 
the  leading  part  in  an  unrehearsed  drama. 

She  entered  to  find  Maurice  and  Flower-o'-the-Corn 
with  their  positions  unchanged. 

"'That  woman,'  indeed!"  she  muttered  between  her 
teeth,  "  I  will  teach  this  man  to  call  me  '  that  woman  '!  " 

And  there  is  no  doubt  that  this  lady  meant  what  she 
said.  Flower-o'-the-Corn  was  still  in  Maurice's  arms,  and 
he  was  mourning  over  her,  kissing  her  pale  face  passion- 
ately the  while,  a  method  of  recovery  from  temporary 
syncope  which,  though  indubitably  ancient,  is  not  in  ac- 
cordance with  modern  medical  treatment,  nor  recom- 
mended by  the  faculty. 

At  the  entrance  of  Yvette  Maurice  Raith  turned  upon 
her,  hot  with  wrath  and  fury,  holding  Frances  still  closer 
in  his  arms  and  looking  as  if  he  would  have  rent  the  in- 
truder limb  from  limb. 

Yvette  stood  smiling  in  the  doorway. 


"KISS  ME,  MY  HUSBAND"      383 

"  What  is  the  matter  with  my  friend,"  she  said,  "  with 
the  dear  Mademoiselle  Wellwood?" 

She  pronounced  the  surname  in  the  French  manner 
with  the  prettiest  labial  lisp,  with  which  at  another  time 
Maurice  would  have  been  delighted. 

But  this  pretension  of  innocence  on  Yvette's  part  was 
much  too  plain.  That  he  was  threatening,  as  it  were,  his 
own  communications,  even  cutting  off  his  path  of  retreat, 
was  of  no  weight  in  comparison  with  the  need  which  Mau- 
rice felt  of  expressing  himself  completely  to  the  traitress 
Yvette,  whose  cunning  scheming  had  brought  them  to 
this. 

"  What  is  the  matter  with  her?  "  he  cried,  indignantly. 
"  That  is  not  for  you  to  ask.  No — stand  off — do  not 
touch  her!  She  is  too  pure  for  such  hands  as  yours.  Do 
not  even  look  at  her!  Do  not  breathe  upon  her.  I  would 
rather  see  her  dead  than  aided  by  you! " 

He  fairly  hissed  the  words  in  his  wrath. 

Yvette  affected  a  kind  of  humorous  terror. 

"  Please,  Monsieur  the  Englishman,  do  not  kill  me 
with  your  glances!  Ah,  I  remember  the  time,  not  so  long 
ago,  either,  when  I  knew  a  young  English  soldier  who 
looked  quite  otherwise  at  poor  Yvette  Foy!  But  at  any 
rate,  if  I  am  not  worthy  to  touch  her,  would  it  not  be 
better  if  you  yourself  laid  her  down  on  a  bench,  or  on  the 
couch  yonder,  and  poured  a  little  cold  water  over  her  face 
and  neck!  The  most  perjured  of  traitresses — even  '  that 
zvonian ' — may  be  permitted,  in  the  name  of  common- 
sense,  to  give  advice  to  a  man  who  knows  no  better  than 
to  march  about  with  a  fainting  girl  in  his  arms  as  if  she 
were  a  puppet  doll  at  a  raree  show! " 

She  paused  a  moment  to  let  her  words  sink  in,  then 
added: 

"  Or  perhaps  you  would  prefer  (and  indeed  it  would  be 
much  more  proper)  that  the  fiance  of  Mademoiselle 
Wellwood,  Colonel  Jean  Cavalier  of  the  King's  army, 
should  be  sent  for  to  recover  her." 

She  laughed  impishly,  and  at  that  very  moment  Mau- 


384        FLOWER-O'-THE-CORN 

rice  felt  Flower-o'-the-Corn  move  in  his  arms.  Was  it 
Cavalier's  name  that  stirred  her?  Had  it  reached  through 
the  glamour  of  faintness  which  still  left  her  heart  deathly 
sick  within  her?  Or — but  the  supposition  is  untenable 
and  not  in  accordance  with  the  character  of  such  a  girl — 
had  the  young  woman  actually  been  conscious  for  a 
longer  or  a  shorter  time,  without  signalling  for  Maurice 
Raith  to  release  her  from  that  imperious  pressure  ?  Who 
shall  decide?  At  all  events,  quick  as  an  echo,  at  the 
name  of  Jean  Cavalier,  Flower-o'-the-Corn  returned  to 
herself. 

She  stared  about  her  wildly,  and  when  she  saw  Yvette 
she  trembled  from  head  to  foot  with  something  of  the 
same  fear  without  which  Jean  Cavalier  never  approached 
the  wife  of  Nicholas  de  Baume. 

Yvette  smiled  at  this  evidence  of  her  power.  All 
power  of  every  sort  was  dear  to  her.  She  would  rather 
that  anyone  should  feel  for  her  an  actual  physical  repul- 
sion than  that  he  should  be  indiflferent  to  her.  Indeed, 
as  in  electricity,  the  power  of  fascination  exercised  by 
such  a  woman  as  Yvette  has  always  two  poles,  often  very 
close  together.  Attraction  and  repulsion  may  both  be 
seen  at  work,  and  not  infrequently  upon  the  same  indi- 
vidual. 

Maurice  would  have  laid  Flower-o'-the-Corn  down  on 
his  couch,  but  at  the  sound  of  the  name  of  Jean  Cavalier 
she  put  the  young  man  to  the  side  with  a  movement  of 
her  hand  and  fronted  Yvette. 

"  I  have  told  him!  "  she  said. 

"  Well,  and  what  does  he  say? "  smiled  Madame  la 
Marechale.  "  Glad  to  escape  death  on  such  easy  terms, 
I  warrant  him !  A  soldier  is  a  soldier  all  the  world 
over ! " 

It  was  hardly  playing  the  game,  Yvette  knew  that  very 
well,  but  the  sight  of  Frances  Wellwood  in  the  arms  of 
Maurice  and — (the  suspicion  is  that  of  Yvette  alone) — 
unwilling  to  quit  them,  had  aroused  in  her  all  the  baser 
angers  of  her  nature.    She  could  not  help  taunting  these 


"KISS  ME,  MY  HUSBAND"      385 

two  who  were  in  her  power.  It  was  foolish,  she  knew, 
and  killed  the  mouse  instead  of  keeping  it  to  play  with 
comfortably  for  an  hour  or  two,  but  all  the  same,  she  could 
not  help  it. 

"  You  think,"  she  said,  contemptuously,  to  Maurice 
Raith,  "  that  it  is  for  the  sake  of  your  beaux  yeux,  my 
friend,  that  I  have  brought  this  thing  to  pass.  Not  at  all! 
I  am  married  to  a  man  who  is  worth  a  dozen  of  you  any 
day.  If  in  anything  I  have  overstepped  the  bounds  al- 
lotted to  the  wives  of  Monsieur  the  butcher  and  Mon- 
sieur the  baker  and  Monsieur  the  candlestick-maker — 
it  has  been  in  my  husband's  service.  And  no  man  can 
say  I  have  at  any  time  been  other  than  his  true  wife  and 
faithful  servant.  I  will  call  him  up  if  you  choose,  and  you 
can  make  your  plaint  to  him,  an  it  liketh  you.  Think  not 
that  I  am  afraid  of  you! 

"  But  as  for  you,  sir,  it  is  not  for  the  sake  of  your  life 
alone  (which,  as  you  are  well  aware,  was  forfeit  as  soon 
as  you  set  foot  across  the  French  frontier) — no,  not  for 
your  excellent  sake,  M.  le  Capitaine  What's-your-name, 
wagoner  of  Roche-a-Bayard  and  Hoo,  not  even  for  the 
sake  of  the  stafif  uniform,  nor  the  yet  more  becoming  cos- 
tume of  the  Maison  Rouge,  that  I  have  disarranged  my- 
self at  all.  But  because  I  would  save  this  girl  from  death, 
— because  I  would  save  her  father — a  good  man  accord- 
ing to  his  lights  and  his  thoughts  (which  are  not  mine), 
and  because  I  desire  to  save  all  this  people  of  the  Ce- 
vennes  from  a  bloody  and  desolating  war,  such  as  you 
and  other  firebrands  and  fanatics  would  have  kept  alight 
among  them !  For  these  reasons  I  have  done  what  I  have 
done!    There,  are  you  answered?  " 

Then  she  turned  toward  Flower-o'-the-Corn. 

"  Frances  Wellwood,  I  bid  you  come  with  me,  who 
alone  have  gone  out  of  my  way  to  save  from  death  and 
dishonor  both  you  and  those  I  thought  dear  to  you!  pr 
do  you  still  desire  to  hear  a  certain  crackling  detonation 
to-morrow  morning,  and  a  few  minutes  afterward  observe 
the  agreeable  carcass  of  this  young  man  being  carried 


386 


FLOWER-O'-THE-CORN 


past  to  the  Protestant  cemetery  of  Millau,  where  by 
grace  of  a  paternal  Government  it  might  be  possible  to 
have  him  buried?    Which  do  you  choose?  " 

Maurice  gripped  his  finger-nails  into  his  palms,  and 
only  the  knowledge  that  a  call  from  Yvette  would  bring 
up  the  soldiers  of  the  Marshal  prevented  him  springing 
upon  the  tormentor,  and  clasping  that  fair  white  throat 
once  and  for  all  in  a  grip  of  steel. 

"  I  wonder  "  (the  thought  came  to  him)  "  would  those 
red  lips  speak  truth  for  once,  even  in  the  death  agony?  " 
Then  Flower-o'-the-Corn  turned  her  about  to  Maurice, 
and  all  the  anger  died  sharply  out  of  his  eyes.  He  was 
utterly  swayed  and  humbled  by  what  he  saw  there. 

"  Dearest,"  she  said,  smiling  at  him  through  a  mist  of 
tears,  "  do  your  part — yours  is  easy  and  soon  done.  Mine 
will  be  the  longer  in  the  doing,  but  I  will  do  it!  She — 
(Frances  pointed  with  open  contempt  to  where  Yvette 
stood  smiling  her  ironic  smile) — she  speaks  part  of  the 
truth.  I  do  this  for  your  sake,  because  I  love  you.  How 
much,  only  a  true  maid  can  know — not  a  woman  like 
her!  " 

(Here  Flower-o'-the-Corn  caught  herself  up  from 
hasty  speech  with  a  rapid  intake  of  breath.) 

"  No,  I  do  not  mean  that!  Who  am  I  that  I  should 
judge  another?" 

She  went  on  without  giving  him  time  to  answer. 

"  Good-by,  beloved !  I  shall  not  see  you  again.  You 
will  go  far  away,  but  you  will  not  forget  me!  No,  not 
ever.  Nor  shall  I  forget,  though  I  am  wedded  to  an- 
other, though  I  lie  by  his  side  night  by  night,  and  every 
night  till  the  day,  the  marvellously  glad  day  when  I  am 
taken.  And  God,  who  orders  all  things,  who  has  ordered 
this  (or  else  granted  power,  for  a  time,  to  some  devil  of 
hell  to  work  His  will),  knoweth  better  than  any  that 
we  can  never  forget.  He  will  not  be  angry  that  I  think  of 
you,  that  I  continue  to  love  you.  For  in  soul  and  spirit 
I  shall  be  your  wife,  and  keep  all  that  is  eternal  of  me,  all 
that  is  immortal,  all  that  does  not  go  back  to  the  worm 


"KISS  ME,  MY  HUSBAND"      387 

and  the  sod,  virgin  for  you — yes,  for  you  alone,  my  love 
and  my  life!  " 

As  she  spoke  she  clasped  him  about  the  neck  with  both 
hands,  oblivious  even  of  the  presence  of  Yvette  and  of  her 
smile,  which,  indeed,  had  become  somewhat  less  pro- 
nounced and  ironical. 

Flower-o'-the-Corn  looked  up  at  Maurice,  and  her  eyes 
were  deep  wells  of  love  and  faith. 

"  Kiss  me — my  husband!  "  she  said. 


XLV 

GOOD    CATHOLICS 

DOWN  on  the  broad  swards  by  the  Tarn  side  were 
the  stir  and  bustle  of  preparation.  To  the  left 
lay  the  royal  regiments,  mostly  foot  grenadiers 
of  the  Red  House  of  the  King,  They  occupied  the  nar- 
row neck  of  the  valley  where  it  turns  up  toward  the 
Dourbie,  and  the  dangerous  neighborhood  of  the  Hill 
Folk,  presently  in  arms  against  his  Majesty. 

To  the  right,  on  the  wider  straths,  were  the  local  levies 
— men  who,  but  for  their  uniform  and  the  fear  of  the  rope 
and  cross-trees  of  the  Provost  Marshal  of  the  camp, 
might  just  as  well  have  been  enrolled  as  franctireurs,  or 
even  Cadets  of  the  Cross. 

Between  these  encampments,  and  apart  from  both, 
were  the  recently  recruited,  and  still  far  from  dependable 
regiments  of  Jean  Cavalier.  It  was  among  these  last  that 
the  stir  was  most  pronounced.  And  when  a  haughty 
stalking  sergeant  of  the  Royal  House  met  a  private  of 
the  new  corps  with  the  gloss  yet  on  his  buttons,  he  ceased 
for  a  moment  twisting  his  mustachios,  and  inquired 
what  was  the  mighty  pother  in  the  encampment  of  the 
Psalm-singers  ? 

This  name  had  been  adopted  by  a  sort  of  mutual  con- 
sent after  a  score  of  others  had  been  tried,  and  sundry 
mountaineers  had  shown  their  metal  in  single  combat 
with  their  insulters  on  several  occasions.  The  usual 
amount  of  "  hazing  "  common  to  all  new  troops  coming 
late  into  a  well-established  army  had,  of  course,  been  their 
fate.  But  a  tendency  to  settle  all  scores  on  the  spot,  gen- 
erally with  a  long  butcher's  killing  knife,  had  proved  a 

388 


GOOD    CATHOLICS  389 

strong  discouragement  to  the  rougher  forms  of  wit,  and 
in  no  way  detracted,  in  the  long  run,  from  the  popularity 
of  the  Psalm-singers. 

"  Our  commander  is  to  be  married  to-day,  and  by  the 
King's  own  orders!  "  quoth  the  man  interrogated,  as  soon 
as  he  was  assured  that  no  further  insult  was  intended, 
adding  immediately,  "  And  to  the  best,  the  most  beau- 
tiful and  most  accomplished  girl  in  the  world." 

"Bah!"  said  he  of  the  Maison  Rouge,  "the  Lady 
Marechale  for  my  money!  I  love  none  of  your  pale 
washed-out  beauties." 

"  Mademoiselle  is  the  daughter  of  a  great  man  and  a 
learned!"  boasted  the  Camisard. 

"A  Genevan  preacher!  "  said  the  other,  sneeringly. 

The  long  Camisard  knife  was  in  the  disputant's  hand  in 
a  moment. 

"  I  will  fight  you  for  it,"  he  said,  promptly.  "  I  main- 
tain that  the  girl  is  a  good  girl,  and  that  her  father  is  a 
great  man!  Will  you  come  with  me  down  behind  the 
willow^s  by  the  island?  " 

The  sergeant  of  the  Maison  Rouge  laughed  good- 
humoredly. 

"  Praise  to  the  saints,  I  was  not  made  so  hot  in  the 
head  as  you  sheep-skin  covered  Psalm-singers,"  he  said; 
"  have  it  your  own  way  and  let  me  go  mine.  I  have 
other  fish  to  fry  than  to  fight  for  no  cause  at  all.  I  dare- 
say that  the  girl  is  all  that  you  say.  Or  at  least,  your  com- 
mander thinks  so  now,  which  is  as  good." 

In  the  great  tent  in  the  hollow  the  ceremony  was  to  be 
performed.  Afterward,  to  please  the  King,  they  were  to 
repair  to  the  church  along  with  the  curc-doycn  of  Millau, 
and  the  civil  authorities  of  the  High  Cevennes,  but  first 
(to  the  wonder  of  all)  they  were  to  be  united  according  to 
the  true  Calvinist  ritual  and  by  the  father  of  the  bride 
himself. 

Maurice  Raith  was  up  and  over  the  frontier  six  good 
days  ago,  and  every  moment  till  that  morning  his  mes- 
senger had  been  expected  in  vain.    But,  apparently,  Billy 


390        FLOWER-O'-THE-CORN 

the  gypsy  was  now  really  on  his  way,  hot-foot  from 
Aigues  Mortes,  whither  he  had  come  by  ship  from  Bar- 
celona, with  a  letter  from  Maurice  Raith,  dated  on  board 
Her  Majesty's  ship  the  Royal  Dane,  announcing  his  safe 
arrival  and  reception  by  the  English  officers.  So,  at  least, 
the  news  went  in  the  camp. 

It  was  the  hour  for  the  sacrifice,  and  Yvette,  who  had 
schemed  and  worked  so  keenly  to  bring  this  about,  had 
for  one  moment  a  spasm  of  remorse  when  she  looked 
upon  the  pale  quiet  of  the  countenance  of  Flower-o'-the- 
Corn.  One  thing  annoyed  her.  The  gypsy  had  not  yet 
put  in  an  appearance,  but  a  swift  horseman,  bearing 
despatches  to  the  Marshal,  had  passed  him  on  the  way, 
and  his  arrival  was  hourly  expected.  She  felt  it  hard  to 
postpone  the  consummation  of  her  schemes  a  single 
hour. 

And  because  there  was  still  a  barrier  to  be  removed, 
Yvette  watched  more  and  more  nervously  for  the  coming 
of  Billy  Marshall  as  the  hour  of  the  wedding  drew  near. 
No  bride  was  ever  more  eager  than  she.  Yvette  it  was 
who  had  ordered  and  seen  to  the  arrangements  of  the 
marriage  banquet.  She  it  was  who  had  provided  the 
plenitude  of  flowers,  an  unusual  feature  at  that  time,  with 
which  the  tables  were  decorated.  She  had  even  obtained 
rare  fruits  from  a  distance,  and  the  idea  that  all  these  com- 
binations of  genius  might  be  spoiled  by  the  non-arrival 
of  a  mere  gypsy  with  a  letter,  sufficed  to  make  her  un- 
wontedly  fretful  and  difficult  to  please. 

The  Marshal  himself  had  early  been  obliged  to  abandon 
his  military  pavilion  for  the  occasion,  and  to  retire  to  the 
bosom  of  his  oldest  friend  and  brother  officer,  who 
shrugged  his  shoulders  in  sympathy  with  his  superior's 
woes — being  also  a  married  man  with  a  wife  considerably 
younger  than  himself. 

"  The  whole  place  is  given  up  to  marrying  and  giving 
in  marriage,"  grumbled  Nicholas  de  Baume.  "  I  declare 
there  is  not  so  much  space  as  would  suffice  to  set  down 
the  breadth  of  a  well-made  man  upon,  without  encounter- 


GOOD    CATHOLICS  391 

ing  such  quantities  of  needles  and  pins  as  would  make  him 
when  he  arose  httle  better  than  an  exceedingly  fretful 
porcupine." 

Honest  Colonel  Verlat  shook  his  head  with  compre- 
hending melancholy,  and  told  the  tale  of  his  sufferings 
upon  one  occasion  when  his  wife  had  entered  into  the 
mysteries  of  lace-making  on  her  own  account. 

"  And  the  worst  of  all,"  broke  in  the  Marshal,  who  was 
paying  but  small  attention,  "  is  the  whimsy  that  this 
spoilt  child  of  the  pastor  of  Geneva  hath  taken  into  her 
head " 

Colonel  Verlat  looked  up  with  a  quickly  stifled  growl. 
He  knew  a  quick  way  with  dissenters,  and  if  he  had  his 
will  he  would  not  have  made  so  great  a  function  of  the 
marrying  of  their  brats.  But  he  also  knew  better  than  to 
say  as  much  to  Nicholas  de  Baume. 

The  general  went  his  mournful  way. 

"  The  lady  will  not  marry  at  all,  if  you  please,  till  the 
writing  of  the  young  officer  is  put  into  her  hand,  declar- 
ing that  he  is  safe  on  the  English  ship.  Well,  that  much 
was  bargained  for.  But  for  the  other  condition  she  hath 
sprung  on  us — it  hath  been  the  mischief  and  all.  She 
will  have  herself  married  by  her  father  in  the  great  tent, 
before  she  will  go  near  the  church — and  all  good  Catho- 
lics are  in  arms  at  that." 

"The  minx!"  cried  Colonel  Verlat,  brusquely,  "was 
ever  heard  such  insolence?  She  should  go  unblessed  if  I 
had  my  way.  To  stand  up  before  a  heretic  and  fanatic 
preacher  rather  than  kneel  at  the  altar  of  the  holy  Notre 
Dame  of  Millau!  " 

Nicholas  de  Baume  shrugged  his  shoulders  at  his  com- 
panion's bigotry.  "  Bad  enough,"  he  said,  "  even  if  a 
heretic  pastor  be  her  father.  But,  after  all,  what  have 
you  and  I,  Francois,  to  do  with  priests  and  pastors,  creeds 
and  credos,  psalm-singing  and  paternosters?  What  in 
our  heart  of  hearts  we  want  is  no  more  than  a  quiet  fire- 
side, a  good  glass  of  sound  wine,  a  hearty  companion,  not 
too  jovial,  and  the  woman  we  love  in  a  good  and  amenable 


392        FLOWER-O'-THE-CORN 

temper  when  we  hear  the  abbey  clock  strike  the  hour  of 
ten!  What  more  do  old  fellows  like  Francois  Verlat  and 
Nick  de  Baume  ask  of  the  jade  Fortune?  Let  Pope  In- 
nocent and  John  Calvin,  Rome  and  Geneva,  bookworm 
Pascal  and  that  frothy  fellow  Bossuet  settle  their  own  dif- 
ferences like  cats  meawling  on  the  roof!  A  quiet  life  in 
the  sun  and  liberty  to  scratch  for  fleas  when  it  liketh  us, 
these  be  the  best  for  old  dogs  like  you  and  me,  Francois 
Verlat." 

"  Thou  wert  always  a  pagan,  Nicholas,"  said  the  Col- 
onel, shaking  his  head,  "  and  I  say  it  to-day  as  freely  to 
your  face  as  I  did  forty  years  ago  at  Saint  Brieac,  when 
they  birched  us  together  for  stealing  the  Abbot's  grapes." 

"  Ah,  lad,"  laughed  the  Marshal,  "  every  man  is  a  good 
Christian  when  his  waist  is  slim  and  he  goes  to  church  to 
show  his  uniform  ofT  against  the  pillars  as  he  ogles  the 
girls.  That  was  where  you  learnt  yours.  But  for  me — 
well,  maybe  you  are  right,  I  never  had  much.  My  favorite 
toasts  went  as  little  to  church  as  they  could  help,  which 
indeed  suited  Nicholas  de  Baume  just  so  much  the  bet- 
ter." 

The  Marquis  rose  to  his  feet  and  reached  out  his  hand 
to  the  table  where  lay  his  accoutrements. 

"  But,  hey,  Frangois,  give  me  a  haul  before  you  go  with 
this  sword-belt.  It  gets  shorter  every  day,  curses  on  it! 
A  blue  plague  on  the  ill-favored,  spavined,  master-saddler 
that  made  it!  There  goes  the  bell.  On  with  your  Sun- 
day face,  Francois,  and  let  us  go  see  how  true  blue  Prot- 
estants are  triced  up." 

"  Hum,"  said  his  friend,  "  I  love  not  the  '  barbets.'  I 
think  that  I  will  wait  till  they  get  to  the  church." 

"  Nonsense,  man!  "  cried  the  Marshal,  "  that  you  shall 
not.  You  would  miss  the  pick  of  the  fun.  There  is  al- 
ways a  hot  chance  of  it  when  my  wife  hath  the  leading- 
strings.  And  as  to  seeing  how  Protestants  are  triced  up, 
there  is  comfort  in  this — they  are  as  certain  to  wish  them- 
selves well  out  of  it  in  three  months  as  ever  you  and  I 
did,  who  are  both  good  Catholics.  Yet,  like  us,  also, 
they  must  e'en  make  the  best  of  it !  " 


GOOD    CATHOLICS  393 

"  I  said  you  were  a  pagan,  Nicholas,"  repeated  the 
other,  "  and  if  you  mend  not  your  ways " 

"There  goes  the  second  bell,  Colonel  Verlat!  Atten- 
tion! Eyes  to  the  front!  Are  you  accoutred?  Follow 
your  commanding  officer!" 

As  he  went  Nicholas  de  Baume  chuckled  to  himself 
under  his  breath. 

"  Always  fun  where  my  wife  is,"  he  grumbled,  with 
unction;  "  did  I  not  tell  you  so,  mon  vieiix.  You  shall 
see!    Allons!" 


XLVI 

THE   NIGHT   LOOKS   INTO   THE   PAVILION 

THEY  had  waited  long.  Billy  Marshall,  though 
often  reported  on  the  way,  had  not  arrived. 
Hope  deferred  was  making  hearts  sick — not, 
indeed,  as  might  have  been  expected,  those  of  the  per- 
sonages principally  concerned,  the  bride  and  bridegroom, 
but  rather  those  of  the  guests  of  the  marriage  feast — 
who,  with  hourly  sharpening  appetites,  eyed  the  prepara- 
tions in  the  kitchens  and  the  cooks  who,  white-aproned 
and  white-bonneted,  rushed  this  way  and  that,  or  with 
hands  held  horizontally  above  their  brows,  looked  down 
the  road  into  the  setting  sun. 

Nevertheless,  in  spite  of  all,  Billy  Marshall  delayed 
his  coming.  Priests  and  choristers  whispered  together 
or  talked  huskily  of  going  home.  But  the  fear  of  the  om- 
nipotent Marshal,  the  representative  of  the  King,  was 
upon  them ;  and  besides,  they  knew  that  to-morrow  the 
report  of  the  whole  would  go  straight  to  Versailles. 

Meantime  the  Marshal  had  despatched  courier  after 
courier.  They  were  instructed  to  bring  Maurice  Raith's 
letter,  if  they  could  not  bring  Billy.  But  the  gypsy  was 
more  clever  than  them  all.  He  would  go  himself  and  de- 
liver the  letter  to  the  young  lady,  or  she  would  not  have 
it  at  all.  In  which  case  there  would  be  no  marriage. 
They  might  please  themselves. 

"  Search  him,  gentlemen  of  the  Red  House !  "  And 
they  searched  him,  finding  tobacco,  snuflf,  and  other  con- 
traband of  war,  but  not  so  much  as  a  scrap  of  writing 
concealed  about  his  rags. 

Being  released,  Billy  Marshall  laughed  in  their  faces. 
394 


THE    PAVILION  395 

Yes,  he  would  accept  a  horse  and  set  forward,  but  at  his 
own  pace.  He  was  coming,  but  he  was  well  aware  that 
nothing-  could  be  done  about  him.  So,  as  he  explained 
in  villanous  French,  like  the  man  whom  the  crowd  had 
come  to  see  hanged,  he  could  afford  to  take  his  time. 

"  Hanged  you  will  be  without  a  doubt !  "  cried  the  ex- 
asperated Sergeant  of  the  Red  House  who  had  been  sent 
to  bring  him  in.  "  When  you  get  there  the  Marshal  will 
be  in  a  temper  to  skin  you  alive  and  eat  you  without 
salt !  " 

"  Set  a  Marshal  to  catch  a  Marshall ! "  said  Billy, 
oracularly.  "  I  jaloose  that  a  gypsy  is  likely  to  come  out 
of  a  scrape  as  well  as  the  best  Frenchman  that  ever  drew 
the  breath  of  life  !  " 


The  upper  part  of  the  great  military  pavilion  had  been 
cleared.  A  table  covered  with  a  rich  purple  velvet  cloth 
had  been  brought,  strictly  under  the  rose,  from  the 
sacristy  of  Our  Lady  of  Millau  by  the  complaisant  ciire- 
doycn.  The  thing  would  please  the  Marquis,  and — what 
would  you?  A  little  holy  water  and  a  dash  of  incense 
would  fumigate  soon  any  lurking  Protestantism  out  of 
the  tissues  of  velvet  and  gold. 

This,  thrown  over  a  plain  deal  table,  made  the  altar 
before  which  Flower-o'-the-Corn  and  Jean  Cavalier 
were  to  kneel.  Patrick  Wellwood  had  already  taken  up 
his  position  behind  it,  tall,  spare,  his  white  hair  falling 
reverently  over  his  black  Genevan  gown.  Flower-o'- 
the-Corn,  with  a  sad  peculiarity,  had  spent  the  last  days 
mending  the  rents  and  holes  in  it. 

Brilliant  and  distinguished  was  the  company,  beyond 
the  wont  of  even  the  headquarters  of  a  Alarshal  of 
France,  which  had  been  drawn  together  by  a  desire  to 
witness  the  marriage  of  so  distinguished  a  Camisard 
(now  rallied  to  the  service  of  the  King),  according  to  the 
rites  of  the  Church  Protestant. 

A  part  of  the  pavilion  had  been  curtained  off,  making 


39^ 


FLOWER-O'-THE-CORN 


an  entrance  to  a  smaller  marquee,  and  there  Flower-o'- 
the-Corn  was  waiting — with  an  actual  impatience,  the 
letter  which,  according  to  promise,  was  to  come  to  her 
from  the  man  whom,  for  one  brief  moment,  she  had 
clasped  in  her  arms  and  called  her  husband. 

Through  the  curtains  which  separated  their  marquee 
from  the  great  pavilion  there  came  a  yellowish  haze  of 
illumination. 

"  They  are  lighting  up,"  said  Yvette.  "  I  had  not 
thought  it  was  so  dark.  I  wish  the  gypsy  would  come ! 
It  is  infinitely  annoying !  " 

"  I  wish  so,  too !  "  said  Flower-o'-the-Corn,  very 
quietly. 

"  You  have  changed  your  mind,  then?"  said  Yvette, 
laughing.  "  You  will  find  your  Camisard  a  better  and 
more  faithful  husband,  I  trow,  than  any  officer  of  my 
Lord  Marlborough's  stafif  1 " 

"  I  have  not  changed  my  mind,"  said  Flower-o'-the- 
Corn,  "  as  you  know  very  well ;  but — I  wish  it  were  over 
and  done  with." 

"  You  are  not  the  first  in  your  circumstances  who  has 
wished  as  much  !  " 

"  I  am  the  first  in  my  circumstances !  "  said  Frances 
Wellwood,  quietly.    "  And  I  hope  the  last  also !  " 

"  But,"  she  added  to  herself,  under  her  breath,  "  God, 
who  knows  all,  will  forgive!  " 


There  was  a  noise  without.  Over  all  arose  the  keen, 
far-reaching  hillman's  shout — half  coo-ee,  half  yodel  of 
the  Cevenol. 

"  He  has  come !  "  cried  Yvette,  suddenly  alert  and 
radiant,  "  at  last !  "  She  was  clad  all  in  red,  hke  a  maple 
leaf  turned  into  a  flower  by  one  night  of  autumn  frost, 
and  in  her  hair,  nestled  among  the  weighty  black  braids, 
was  a  single  blossom  of  the  pomegranate,  the  most 
gorgeous  scarlet  God  has  made.  Flower-o'-the-Corn 
was  in  white,  without  color,  save  for  a  couple  of  spots 


THE    PAVILION  397 

the  size  of  a  florin,  which  burned  steadily  one  on  either 
cheek,  high  up,  where  the  heart's  blood  leaped  under 
the  fine  firm  skin.  Her  ripe-wheat  hair,  which  had  first 
given  the  girl  her  name,  rippled  and  swirled,  alternately 
like  honey  in  the  comb  and  gold  red  in  the  bar,  as  you 
may  see  them  unloading  it  from  Spanish  galleons  at  the 
quays  of  Carthagena. 

"  A  pale  bride !  "  whispered  the  maids  who  attended 
on  her  at  command  of  the  Lady  Marechale. 

"  /  think  she  loves  the  other!  "'  said  her  friend,  sagely. 

"  They  mostly  do,"  replied  the  first,  who  was  of  the 
order  and  lineage  of  her  mistress,  "  not  that  in  the  long 
run  it  makes  a  great  deal  of  difference  !  " 

"  It  would  make  a  great  deal  of  difference  to  me  1  " 
said  her  friend,  a  little  dolefully,  for  she  had  a  hope  in 
her  heart,  of  which  she  had  not  yet  informed  her  family. 
He  was  to  "  demand  her  hand  "  if  and  when  he  returned 
from  the  wars. 

"  Tut — that  does  not  count — you  always  were  a 
baby !  "  said  the  IMarechale's  personal  attendant. 

"  But  hark — there  they  are !  We  shall  need  to  be  go- 
ing in  now.  You  are  to  take  the  left  side  of  the  bride's 
dress,  I  the  right,  and  mind,  do  not  let  it  sag  in  the  cen- 
tre.    Everything  depends  upon  that !  " 


Yes,  Billy  Marshall  had  come  at  last.  He  was  wait- 
ing, unshaven  and  unshorn,  in  front  of  the  pavilion — a 
strange  pivot  for  all  this  splendor  to  turn  upon.  But 
the  bride  had  been  firm  in  this,  if  in  nothing  else.  She 
would  not  be  married — she  would  not  go  to  the  altar, 
till  from  the  hands  of  Billy  Marshall,  the  Kirkcudbright 
gypsy,  the  letter  of  Maurice  Raith  had  passed  into  hers. 

She  stood  up — fair,  pale,  motionless,  her  attitude  tense 
with  hstening  to  the  tumult  without. 

"  Bid  him  come  in !  "  she  said,  and  then,  as  one  of  the 
temporary  maids-of-honor  went  to  call  the  messenger 


398 


FLOWER-O'-THE-CORN 


into  the  lesser  of  the  two  tents  of  festival,  she  added, 
"  And  where  is — the  other  man?  " 

It  was  Yvette  who  answered  her. 

"Do  you  not  hear?"  she  cried,  clappin.s:  her  hands 
with  pleasure.  "  His  people  are  bringing  him  up  in  tri- 
umph.    Do  you  hear  the  White  Shirts  shouting?" 

And  through  the  gay  rataplan  of  drums  and  the  blare 
of  trumpets,  there  pierced  the  strange  fitful  chant  of  the 
Camisard  psalm.  Yvette  smiled.  She  had  heard  it  a 
thousand  times.  Night  and  morning  it  had  summoned 
her  from  her  most  interesting  occupations,  from  books 
which  made  the  blood  flush  hot  to  read,  from  agreeable 
company,  from  the  composition  of  the  epistles  by  means 
of  which  she  had  lived  the  dull  days  down — letters  ad- 
dressed externally  to  her  maiden  aunts.  Her  father 
liked  her  voice,  he  said.  She  hummed  a  bar  or  two  now, 
accentuating  the  characteristic  grace-notes  and  the  nasal 
whine — and  then  laughed  bitterly. 

Except  the  Lord  do  build  the  house 

The  builders  lose  their  pain  ; 
Except  the  Lord  the  city  keep. 

The  watchmen  watch  in  vain. 

The  words  were  French,  of  course,  but  of  a  like  rude 
simplicity  with  the  Scots  version,  and  the  effect  was  the 
same.  The  tune  was  the  famous  March  of  Spirit  Seguier, 
to  the  music  of  which  he  went,  the  soul  within  him  "  like 
a  well-watered  garden,"  by  way  of  the  torture  to  the 
stake. 

As  Yvette  laughed,  the  flap  of  the  tent  was  lifted,  and 
the  girl  who  had  gone  out,  first  snatching  her  skirts  and 
lace-edged  draperies  out  of  the  way  of  contagion,  let 
into  the  marquee  a  figure  at  once  tremendous  in  its 
power  and  ridiculous  by  its  flapping  rags — Billy  Mar- 
shall, the  Scottish  gypsy  and  promised  messenger  of 
Maurice  Raith. 

Flower-o'-the-Corn  set  one  hand  instinctively  to  her 
heart,   and   the    red   florin-pieces    on   her   cheek    faded 


THE    PAVILION  399 

utterly  away.  Then  she  held  out  the  other.  The  hand 
of  the  gypsy  met  hers  fairly,  rested  there  a  long  moment, 
and  fell  again  to  his  side.  Yvette  would  have  given  half 
of  her  kingdom  to  make  sure  what  it  was  that  passed 
between  them.  But  she  knew  that  Billy  Marshall  was 
not  a  man  to  trifle  with,  standing  there  free,  his  weapons 
ready  to  his  finger-grip,  and  no  other  man  within  call- 
ing distance  to  coerce  him.  So  she  had  to  be  content 
with  promising  herself  that  he  should  be  made  to  speak 
— afterward.  It  did  not  strike  her  that  it  might  pos- 
sibly be  somewhat  too  late — aftcrzvard. 

The  music  ceased.  There  ensued  that  waiting  hush 
which  is  often  more  trying  to  the  nerves  than  the 
wildest  excitement,  that  distinctive  and  peculiar  silence 
which  tells  that  a  great  multitude  is  waiting  for  the  ap- 
pearance of  one.  The  orator  hears  it  in  the  last  minutes 
before  he  faces  his  audience.  The  clergyman  tastes  it  in 
the  silence  of  his  vestry  after  the  organ  notes  have 
ceased  and  the  verger  stands  waiting.  The  murderer 
knows  it  as  his  last  toilette  is  being  made,  in  those  slow 
minutes  before  he  emerges  upon  that  grim  silhouette  of 
dark  beams  which  has  haunted  his  dreams  for  weeks, 
the  raw  morning  air,  the  hoarse  roar  of  the  crowd  surg- 
ing beneath,  and — after  certain  simple  operations — the 
white  face  of  God,  waiting. 

But  none  of  these  could  be  more  trying  than  that  hush 
to  the  nerves  of  Flower-o'-the-Corn.  True,  there  was 
Maurice's  writing.  She  had  not  lived  in  vain.  Also  she 
could  feel  between  her  fingers  a  fine  powder,  carefully 
folded,  attached  according  to  agreement  to  the  interior 
page  of  the  letter.  After  one  briefest  glance  she  thrust 
the  whole  back  into  her  bosom.  She  breathed  a  long 
sigh.  The  red  flushed  up  again  into  her  cheek.  Her 
eyes  brightened.  No,  he  had  not  deceived  her.  All  was 
well. 

"  You  were  wrong,"  whispered  the  second  maid  of 
honor,  she  of  the  secret  hope  ;  "  see — she  blushes  !  She 
loves  him  after  all !  " 


400        FLOWER-O'-THE-CORN 

But  the  subtle  Yvette  was  not  by  any  means  so  well 
satisfied.  There  was  something  behind,  something 
from  which  she,  who  had  planned  all,  was  shut  out. 
Well,  it  did  not  matter,  to-morrow  she  (that  is,  others 
for  her)  would  make  Billy  Marshall  speak.  And  at  any 
rate,  long  before  that  Flower-o'-the-Corn  would  be  mar- 
ried as  firmly  as  half-a-dozen  ofBcials  and  the  ministers 
of  two  religions  could  do  it.  Thus  at  last  she  would  be 
revenged  upon  Flower-o'-the-Corn — who  had  no  right 
to  be  both  younger  and  fairer  than  she — who  had  come 
so  near  to  losing  her  the  afifection — pshaw !  at  least  had 
caused  to  waver  the  attention  of  her  husband,  upon  the 
rival  who  had  won  and  kept  the  love  of  Maurice  Raith, 
delivering,  as  it  were,  that  young  man  out  of  the  net 
spread  for  him. 

Moreover,  she  would  also  be  revenged  upon  Maurice 
Raith,  who  had  been  fool  enough  not  to  know  when  he 
might  have  been  well  ofif.  Love  him — no,  of  course  not ! 
But  all  the  same  had  he  not  kissed  her  of  his  own  free 
will?  Well  then,  he  must  pay.  Already  she  had  made 
him  pay !  She  thought  of  him  writing  that  letter  on  the 
deck  of  that  British  ship  and  laughed.  Furthermore,  he 
should  pay  yet  more  bitterly.  She  had  not  done  with 
Monsieur  Maurice  Raith.  Oh  yes,  she,  Yvette  Foy,  had 
a  long  arm.  Providence  could  bring  things  to  pass,  but 
in  her  own  opinion  she  made  not  at  all  a  bad  second.  It 
was  the  hour  of  her  triumph,  and  she  tasted  its  full 
sweetness  as  the  maids  of  honor  picked  up  Flower-o'- 
the-Corn's  train,  and  the  girl  herself  thrust  her  hand 
once  more  into  her  bosom  to  make  sure  that  Maurice 
Raith's  letter  and  inclosure  were  in  safety. 

As  for  Jean  Cavalier,  Yvette  had  no  feelings  of  re- 
venge satisfied,  or  to  be  satisfied,  against  him.  One 
may  tread  upon  a  black  beetle  which  gets  in  the  way, 
but  one  does  not  revenge  one's  self  upon  it. 

The  little  procession  entered  the  great  pavilion  about 
midway  its  length.  On  either  side,  with  a  clear  fair- 
way in  the  centre,  were  assembled  the  guests  of  the  Mar- 


THE    PAVILION  401 

quis  and  Marquise  de  Montrevel.  Opposite  was  the 
door  through  which,  after  the  bride's  entrance,  the  Mar- 
shal himself  would  lead  in  the  bridegroom. 

The  time  was  come.  Even  the  heart  of  Yvette  herself 
beat  a  little  faster  as  the  trumpets  and  fifes  rang  out. 
The  curtain  was  lifted  by  a  cord  from  within.  A  haze 
of  glorious  light  fronted  them,  flashing  uniforms  of  blue 
and  scarlet  and  gold.  The  massed  standards  of  a  score 
of  regiments,  the  hangings  of  the  state  pavilions  of  the 
Maison  Rouge  itself,  barriered  pikes  in  banks  and 
chevmix-de-frise,  crossed  trophies  of  swords,  silken  tas- 
sels, the  Fleur-de-Lys  everywhere,  splashed  in  gold  on 
creamy  white.  Yet  louder  sang  the  trumpets.  All  eyes 
were  upon  the  two  girls.  Smiling,  Yvette  led  in  the 
bride.  Most  of  the  men  judged  Yvette  to  be  the  love- 
liest. Even  the  bridegroom,  with  the  Marshal  on  his 
right,  secretly  thought  so.  The  fierce  Camisards  peer- 
ing into  the  lit  spaces  as  if  into  the  courts  of  heaven, 
thought  so.  Only  one  or  two,  women  mostly,  rare  in 
that  vast  whirlpool  of  blazing  uniforms,  preferred  the 
grave  sweetness  and  pale  beauty  of  Flower-o'-the-Corn. 

The  two  parties  moved  forward  to  meet  each  other  in 
that  central  aisle  that  had  been  kept  open  with  so  much 
difificulty.  The  Marquis  moved  back  a  step.  Yvette, 
with  her  own  smile,  radiant  with  the  perfection  of  tri- 
umph, placed  the  hand  of  Flower-o'-the-Corn  in  that  of 
Jean  Cavalier. 

There  was  a  silence  all  about  as  the  marriage  party 
moved  up  the  aisle,  Frances  with  her  bridegroom  lead- 
ing, Yvette  upon  the  arm  of  her  husband,  glancing 
radiant  in  the  rear  of  the  train-bearers. 

In  the  interval,  and  just  before  they  reached  the  al- 
tar, covered  simply  with  its  purple  cloth,  upon  which 
was  a  great  ridged  cross  of  gold,  Patrick  Wellwood  in 
his  Genevan  gown,  and  with  the  book  of  God  in  his 
hand,  moved  behind  it  to  receive  them. 

Then,  as  he  lifted  up  his  hands  in  the  first  solemn  in- 
vocation   of   his   religion,  the    Camisard    chaunt    came 


402        FLOWER-O'-THE-CORN 

louder  from  without — weird,  fitful,  dirgelike,  prescient 
rather  of  death  than  of  marriage  happiness. 

Except  the  Lord  the  city  keep^ 
The  watchmen  watch  in  vain. 

"  For  heaven's  sake  let  that  whining  be  stopped !  " 
said  de  Montrevel,  fiercely ;  "  I  will  go  myself  and  order 
it." 

"  Hush !  Bide  where  you  are  !  "  murmured  the  wife, 
snatching  at  his  sleeve,  with  a  sudden  whitening  of  the 
face.  "  I  thought  I  heard  a  voice  singing — a  voice  I  re- 
member!  " 

She  turned  as  if  to  listen.  Patrick  Wellwood  was 
raising  his  voice  in  sonorous  petition. 

Suddenly,  as  Yvette  looked,  the  white  wall  of  the  tent 
was  slashed  with  a  gleaming  knife  from  top  to  bottom, 
and  through  the  aperture  by  which  the  black  night 
looked  in — wild,  fierce,  tremendous,  leaped  the  figure 
of  a  man.  His  long  gray  hair,  matted  and  dank,  fell  be- 
neath his  shoulders.  Madness  looked  out  of  his  eyes. 
A  glairy  foam  hung  about  his  lips,  which  kept  up  an 
uncouth  muttering. 

"  I  have  found  them  both  at  once ! "  he  cried ;  "  he 
who  hath  led  astray  my  daughter — he  who  hath  made 
of  her  what  she  is.  You — you — you  !  "  He  advanced 
toward  the  Marechal,  who  stood  unmoved,  while  all 
about  him  seemed  paralyzed  at  the  sudden  fearful  ap- 
parition. "  Now  I,  Martin  Foy,  will  slay  you  and  the 
woman  together !  " 

And  at  the  word  he  precipitated  himself  toward  de 
Montrevel. 

But  faster  than  the  flashing  of  his  knife  came  the 
movement  of  Yvette.     "  My  husband !     My  husband !  " 

And  lo !  with  a  breaking  cry  she  flung  herself  fiercely 
between  the  assassin  and  his  victim.  Her  breast,  white 
and  heaving  under  its  lace  and  silk,  received  the  mad- 
man's stroke  fairly.     The  blood  sprang  and  fell  upon 


THE    PAVILION  403 

the  frosted  maple  of  her  wedding  garment,  as  scarlet  as 
itself  in  the  shrine  of  the  altar  candles. 

"  He  is  my  husband  !    I  love  him  !  "  she  cried. 

With  a  hoarse  roar  the  crowd  closed  in  to  tear  the 
murderer  to  pieces,  but  with  an  infinitely  fiercer  bran- 
dishing of  his  knife  and  an  exultant  shout  of  "  I  have 
slain  her  that  played  the  harlot  among  her  people !  To 
her  place  let  her  go !  "  he  disappeared  into  the  gash  of 
blackness  through  which  the  stars  peered  in  familiar  and 
distant  and  chill. 

Then  Nicholas  de  Baume,  the  tears  running  from  eyes 
that  had  been  dry  for  forty  years,  held  in  his  arms  the 
woman  who  had  given  her  life  for  his. 

Once  only  did  she  open  her  eyes,  still  dark  and  pas- 
sionate and  glorious.  "  I  am  sorry,"  she  said,  looking 
at  Cavalier  and  Flower-o'-the-Corn.  "  Do  not  let  them 
marry.    It  was  my  fault." 

Something  unseen  was  drowning  her  life  within,  for 
there  was  little  stain  upon  the  stufif  of  her  dress. 

"  Be  pitiful,  Nicholas,"  she  said.  "  Before  you  slay 
my  father,  tell  him  that  I  am  your  wife — that  I  am  your 
true  wife.  I  loved  you,  Nicholas.  I  wish  for  your  sake 
that  I  had  been — ah,  God — God  !  " 

And  with  that  she  was  gone.  At  least  the  leaving  of 
Yvette  Foy's  life  had  not  wholly  misbecome  her. 


XLVII 

THE   HUNTING    OF   A    MAN 

KILL  the  heretics !  Kill !  Kill ! "  cried  the  men 
of  the  Maison  Rouge,  dashing  out  into  the 
night  like  a  swarm  of  angry  wasps. 

And  had  it  not  been  for  the  Catholic  officers,  most 
of  Cavalier's  new  troops  would  have  fallen  victims  to 
the  opinions  which  they  had  forsaken.  Nay,  Jean  Cav- 
alier himself  was  struck  at  and  wounded  in  the  arm. 
The  Marechal,  in  the  first  moments  of  his  terrible  grief, 
hardly  noticed  anything  that  went  on  about  him,  and  it 
was  Colonel  Verlat  who  guided  Flower-o'-the-Corn  and 
her  father  back  to  the  chambers  of  the  Marechale's  quar- 
ters, now  looking  strangely  empty  and  deserted. 
Scraps  of  silk  and  knitting-baskets  were  strewed  about, 
with  feathers  and  pieces  of  discarded  jewelry.  A  pretty 
morning  gown  hung  on  a  wooden  peg  with  a  curious  re- 
semblance in  its  shape  to  the  dead  woman's  figure. 

The  Camisard  regiments  had  withdrawn  silently  and 
sullenly  to  their  camp,  whence  by  swimming  the  Tarn 
and  scattering  over  their  native  Causses  in  the  darkness, 
but  few  remained  to  hold  their  leader  in  countenance  in 
the  morning. 

But  through  all  the  tumult  of  the  sudden  assassina- 
tion and  the  hubbub  of  the  camp,  there  were  certain 
who  from  the  first  followed  doggedly  the  track  of  the 
murderer.  Prominent  among  these  there  was  that  ser- 
geant-major of  the  Maison  Rouge  who  had  so  long  ad- 
mired Yvette  afar  ofif.  There  was  also  of  the  invited 
guests  one  Monsieur  Bechet,  of  the  Military  Prison,  to 
whom  she  had  scarcely  spoken  save  to  make  of  him  her 

404 


THE    HUNTING    OF    A    MAN     405 

tool.  There  was  a  captain  of  artillery  and  a  young  sub- 
altern of  foot,  to  neither  of  whom  had  she  ever  uttered 
a  sentence.  Yet  these  four  followed  Martin  Foy  re- 
lentlessly over  the  rough  scraps  and  slaty  debris — up — 
up — toward  the  wild  tablelands  of  the  Larzac. 

On  the  way  out  of  the  camp  the  fugitive  had  rushed 
a  deserted  guardhouse,  holding  his  Camisard  knife  red 
in  his  hand.  It  was  a  night  when  a  certain  slackness  of 
discipline  was  permissible,  and  the  under-officers  had 
most  of  them  gone  ofT  to  see  the  sight  down  at  the  great 
pavilion. 

The  startled  shout  of  the  single  sleepy  private  left  in 
charge  was  followed  by  his  instant  flight.  The  long- 
bladed  Camisard  knife  Just  grazed  his  shoulder  as  he 
scudded  under  his  assailant's  arm.  Yet  he  was  a  brave 
man,  too,  and  died  fighting  at  Malplaquet  as  a  soldier 
should.  But  that  astonishing  figure,  those  long  snaky 
locks,  that  red  uplifted  knife — well,  many  are  the  brave 
men,  awaked  suddenly  from  sleep,  who  might  have  done 
even  as  did  Private  Adrien  Lunel,  of  the  Montpelier 
Regiment. 

Whereupon,  as  was  known  afterward,  the  madman 
helped  himself  liberally  to  arms  and  ammunition.  The 
weight  he  now  carried  made  him  the  easier  to  come  up 
with.  For  barefoot,  on  his  own  native  Larzac,  and  car- 
rying no  weight,  hardly  a  wolf-dog  could  have  turned 
him.  But  indeed  it  is  now  none  so  sure  that  escape  was 
the  man's  purpose. 


It  was  in  the  plain  midst  of  the  limestone  desert  of  the 
largest  Causse  in  France  that  they  hemmed  him  in — or, 
rather,  perhaps,  that  Martin  Foy  kneeled  down,  calmly 
looked  over  his  muskets,  and  laid  out  his  store  of  am- 
munition ready  to  his  hand. 

He  laughed  in  gurgling  murmurs,  chuckling  to  him- 
self as  he  made  his  preparations.  A  shot  whistled  past 
his   ear.     It   came   from  behind   one   of  the   thousand 


4o6        FLOWER-O'-THE-CORN 

bowlders  which  he  had  passed  on  the  way — natural 
fortresses  from  whence  (had  such  been  his  desire)  he 
might  have  slaughtered  his  pursuers  with  the  ease  and 
certainty  of  machinery. 

But  Martin  Foy  had  come  there  to  die. 

On  the  bald  scalp  of  the  Larzac,  ground  flat  by  a  thou- 
sand years  of  glacier  ice,  sparsely  patched  here  and 
there  with  an  inch  deep  fell  of  juniper  and  thyme,  creep- 
ing plants  that  sprang  from  the  cracks  of  the  limestone, 
not  a  bowlder,  not  a  ridge  of  rock  within  a  thousand 
yards — there,  where  he  had  lived,  would  he  make  an 
end. 

"  Now,"  he  said,  smiling  triumphantly,  "  let  them 
come.  It  is  a  fair  challenge.  I  will  try  my  marksman- 
ship against  theirs  as  soon  as  the  light  comes  clearer." 

Another  bullet  whistled  by,  skipping  over  the  lime- 
stone like  an  angry  bumble-bee.  Then  Martin  Foy  rose 
to  his  feet  and  shouted,  because  all  his  life  he  had  dis- 
liked waste. 

"  Wait  till  the  moon  comes  out  from  under  that  cloud 
yonder,  and  then  have  at  you !  " 

The  time  appeared  to  pass  slowly  for  all  concerned. 
Martin  Foy  bit  on  a  bullet  and  emptied  a  measure  of 
powder  into  his  hand.  Then  very  carefully  he  put  the 
grains  back  again. 

"  They  keep  their  guns  well  enough,  these  Papists," 
he  growled,  "  but  I  wish  that  fellow  had  given  a  touch 
more  oil  to  his  trigger,  and  this  powder-flask  is  infa- 
mously foul." 

With  incredible  slowness  the  clouds  moved  off  the 
face  of  the  moon.  Martin  grew  restless.  Doubtless,  he 
thought,  his  pursuers  were  creeping  up  nearer  to  him. 
Yet  he  could  not  see  them.  They  might  close  in  upon 
him  with  a  rush  ere  he  was  aware.  Well,  he  could  be 
to  the  full  as  cunning  as  they.    Let  him  think. 

So  upon  the  stillness  of  that  terrible  night  of  the 
hunting  of  a  man  there  rose  high  and  clear  the  Camisard 
chaunt  called,  "  The  Daughter  of  Jerusalem."    Sad  and 


THE    HUNTING    OF    A    MAN     407 

wayward  and  wearyful  it  is  at  any  time,  but  now  heard 
under  the  stars,  sung  as  a  death-song  by  a  madman  and 
the  slayer  of  his  only  child,  it  thrilled  those  listening  to 
it,  as  if  it  had  been  the  trumpet  of  the  angel  who  in  that 
Day  shall  stand  one  foot  on  sea  and  one  on  land : 

"  O  Daughter  of  Jerusalem-  —thou  w/io  art  destroyed  ! 
Happy  is  Jie  that  rewardeth  thee  for  thine  iniquity  / 
Happy  he  that  taketh  thy  little  ones  in  their  tenderness 
And  dasheth  them  against  the  stones  /  " 

And  this  terrible  chaunt  was  followed  by  the  mad- 
man's laugh.  Guided  by  the  sound  the  hunters  dashed 
in,  but  once  more  Martin  Foy  had  balked  them.  The 
place  was  empty,  vague,  silent.  The  murderer  was  not 
there. 


At  last  out  of  the  cloud  slid  the  moon.  The  madman 
was  kneeling  on  one  knee,  his  musket  to  his  shoulder. 
Not  in  vain  had  he  been  accounted  the  best  shot  among 
the  men  of  the  Larzac,  a  company  of  fighters  and 
hunters,  all  mighty  before  the  Lord. 

'*  Ah — there  !     There  !     Do  you  see  him  ?     There  !  " 

Indeed,  every  man  of  them  saw  him  clear  in  the  chill 
moonlight  of  the  Larzac,  gray  and  frost-filtered  with  the 
altitude. 

But  the  quarry  also  saw  his  hunters,  and  with  a  sigh 
Sergeant-major  Peyrat  of  the  Maison  Rouge  rolled  over 
and  lay  still — very' still  and  with  a  bitten  bullet  in  his 
side. 

"  One  !  "  said  Martin  Foy — "  No,  two  !  "  he  corrected 
himself,  not  without  a  certain  glee,  as  he  marked  the 
moonlight  shine  dully  on  the  wet  blade  of  his  knife.  All 
the  time,  up  the  sides  of  the  Larzac,  by  the  narrow  defiles 
of  the  Dourbie,  men  were  climbing — adventurous  men, 
brave  men,  all  eager  to  shed  the  blood  of  the  murderer 
of  their  general's  wife. 

In  an  hour  they  had  formed  a  circle  almost  complete 


4o8        FLOWER-O'-THE-CORN 

about  him,  some  lying  on  the  scanty  juniper,  some  crawl- 
ing over  the  dwarf  heath,  or  spread  abroad  upon  the 
lavender  and  sage — sprawling,  clinging,  gliding,  sliding 
hither  and  thither  Hke  lizards  on  hot  rocks,  all  eager  for 
the  death  of  one  man — a  man  who  asked  no  better  than 
to  die.  While  there — out  on  the  open  waste,  knelt 
Martin  Foy — a  figure  of  fear,  hatless,  his  long  gray  hair 
clotted  with  sweat  and  blood,  his  clothing  mere  rags  of 
tatters,  his  white  teeth  showing  in  the  moonlight  like 
those  of  a  trapped  wolf,  now  singing  by  snatches  his 
Camisard  psalms,  now  yelling  and  leaping  in  the  mere 
joy  of  madness  and  the  lust  of  blood. 

Of  all  who  were  out  upon  the  face  of  the  Larzac  that 
night,  he  alone  made  no  attempt  at  concealment.  He 
sought  no  shelter.  He  disdained  alike  rock-shelter  and 
juniper  clump.  A  grim  black  figure  out  on  the  waste, 
fear-compelling,  the  spent  moon  shedding  a  misty 
aureole  about  him,  loading  and  firing  as  fast  as  he  could 
send  the  powder  and  shot  down  the  barrel,  yelling  in 
unison  with  the  ring  of  his  ramrod — that  was  Martin 
Foy,  the  mad  Camisard,  fighting  his  last  fight — the  knife 
with  his  daughter's  blood  yet  red  on  the  haft,  displayed 
on  the  pallid  Hmestone  before  him. 

And  thus  the  man  was  hunted — a  thousand  against 
one. 

And  as  Martin  Foy  loaded  and  fired,  this  one  and  that 
other.  Sergeant-major  Peyrat,  young  Theo  de  Banville, 
and  Monsieur  Bechet  himself,  fell  over  with  the  groan 
of  the  bullock  poleaxed  between  the  thills,  and  died — 
thinking  it  a  light  thing  to  die  fighting  for  a  woman  like 
Yvette,  the  wife  of  the  Marechal  de  Montrevel. 

And  still  as  the  Camisard  fought  he  sang,  lifting  up 
his  voice  to  the  hill-silences,  and  caring  not  that  by  so 
doing  he  guided  hundreds  more  to  the  place  whereon  he 
had  chosen  to  die. 

"  Babylon—  Babylon  the  great  is  fallen  :  is  fallen— 
Upon  whose  forehead  is  written  mystery. 
Babylon  the  great,  the  mother  of  harlots, 
And  of  all  the  abominations  of  the  earth!" 


THE    HUNTINCx   OF    A    MAN     409 

And  then  at  the  end  of  his  song,  with  a  mighty  shout 
the  madman  rose  to  his  feet  and  cried,  "  Come  and  slay 
or  ye  will  come  too  late.  I  saw,  as  it  had  been  a  daugh- 
ter of  my  flesh,  but  no  daughter  of  mine — a  woman 
drunken  with  the  blood  of  the  saints,  and  lo !  I  slew  her! 
Was  it  not  well  done  ?  " 

And  at  that  moment,  even  as  he  cried  aloud,  he  saw 
one  come  up  breathless,  having  left  his  dead  in  other  care 
to  be  made  ready  for  her  burial — the  old  soldier  de 
Montrevel,  his  sword  bright  in  his  hand. 

And  as  he  came  he  saw  his  enemy,  black  against  the 
illumined  mist,  loading  and  firing,  with  laughter  and 
singing.  So  being  the  husband  of  the  woman  slain,  and 
caring  naught  for  the  death  that  sprang  toward  every- 
one that  advanced,  he  shouted,  "  Follow  me  to  slay — 
I  am  Nicholas  de  Baume — the  husband  of  her  whom  the 
murderer  slew !  " 

And  like  a  charging  bull  he  rushed  full  at  the  single 
figure  out  there  on  the  flat  grayness  of  the  limestone. 
Now  Martin  Foy  had  a  loaded  musket  in  his  hand  and 
the  Marechal  de  Montrevel  was  clear  against  the  moon 
as  he  came  toward  him.  The  madman  could  have  shot 
him  dead  as  he  had  done  so  many  others  that  night. 
But  he  had  heard  the  word.  A  new  idea  flashed  across 
his  brain,  now  crystal  clear,  anon  working  like  yeast. 

"  Her  husband! "  he  shouted  in  a  mighty  voice.  "  If 
that  be  true  then  I,  Martin  Foy,  have  shed  innocent 
blood.     It  is  here  upon  this  blade !  " 

"  Red  to  the  haft !  "  he  cried  as  he  caught  it  up  in  the 
pale  glinting  of  the  moon.  "  God  of  gods,  let  me  bear 
the  sin  alone  !  " 

And  with  a  hand  sure  and  tried,  he  plunged  the  great 
Camisard  knife,  yet  red  with  the  blood  of  his  daughter, 
deep  into  his  own  throat. 


4IO        FLOWER-O'-THE-CORN 

Selah — A  Song  in  Antiphony. 

Catinat  the  Prophet  and  one  Roland,  called  the  Red, 
were  standing  at  the  door  of  the  Protestant  Temple  in 
the  village  of  La  Cavalerie.  The  daily  service  was  be- 
ginning. Within  the  psalms  were  being  chaunted,  and 
without  the  leaders,  having  matters  to  arrange  for  the 
safety  of  the  defences,  which  were  still  being  held  to  the 
death,  spoke  softly  together. 

"  Jean  Cavalier — what  of  him  ?  "  said  Roland  to  the 
grim-featured  old  prophet. 

His  reply  could  not  be  heard,  but  from  within  came 
the  chaunting  of  the  Brethren  of  the  Way  at  their  daily 
service  of  praise ! 

"  Mine  own  familiar  friend  in  ivhom  I  trusted. 
Which  did  eat  of  my  bread. 
Hath  lifted  up  his  heel  against  tne  /  "     ' 

Then  changing  to  a  softer  measure  the  song  went  on: 

"  The  sacrifices  of  God  are  a  broken  spirit. 
A  broken  and  a  contrite  heart. 
Thou,  O  God,  wilt  not  despise  !  " 

"  I  have  had  a  letter  from  our  brother,  that  true  man 
and  father  in  Israel,  Patrick  Wellwood.  Once  more  he 
is  dividing  the  way  to  the  soldiers  who  fight  for  the 
truth — even  to  those  called  the  regiment  of  Ardmillan  !  " 

Within  the  psalm  was  changed.  The  tune  came 
stronger  and  more  rejoicefully. 

"  He  shall  be  like  a  tree  planted  by  the  rivers  of  water. 
That  bringeth  forth  his  fruit  in  his  season." 

"And  his  daughter?"  said  Roland,  rather  more 
eagerly.  "  Verily,  she  was  a  shoot  of  a  goodly  tree — an 
herb  of  grace  !  " 

"  She  is  married  happily  and  her  husband  is  now  Com- 
mandant of  the  same  regiment — which,  sayeth  Patrick 


THE    HUNTING    OF    A    MAN     411 

Wellwood,  is  now  no  longer  to  be  called  Ardmillan's  but 
Raith's  foot — a  name  sufficiently  strange  to  the  ear. 
They  are  happy  in  each  other  and  in  their  children.  But, 
he  adds,  the  wild  man  that  was  with  them  hath  gone  to 
abide  at  a  place  called  Keltonhill !  " 

And  from  within  came  the  chorussed  affirmation,  the 
continuation  of  the  Camisard's  song. 

"  His  leaf  also  shall  not  wither, 
And  whatever  he  doeth  shall  prosper'' 


"  And  still,"  said  Roland,  "  in  spite  of  Jean  Cavalier 
and  his  defections,  we  Brethren  of  the  Way  hold  our  de- 
fenced  villages.  The  enemy  hath  not  made  an  inroad. 
Nor  shall  our  spirits  ever  be  broken !  " 

*'  For  that  give  God  the  glory !  "  quoth  stout  Catinat, 
uncovering  devoutly. 

And  from  within  that  little  house  of  prayer,  where  of 
old  the  Templars  had  held  their  revels,  came  the  solemn 
Doxology  which  closed  the  hill-folk's  worship : 

"  As  FOR  ME,  Thou  upholdest  me  in  mine  integrity 
And  settest  me  before  Thy  face  for  ever  : 
Blessed  be  the  Lord  God  of  Israel, 
From  everlasting  and  to  everlasting!    Amen  and 
Amen ! " 


THE    END. 


[  Witnessed  to  be  a  True  Tale,  so  far  as 
man  may  tvrite,  the  Eve  of  Malplaquet  of 
the  year  1724,  ///  our  House  of  Raith\ 

M,  R. 

F.R. 


asp  ^.  E.  Crocfeett 


Author  of  "The  Stickit  Minister,"  "The  Black  Douglas, 
"The  Firebrand,"  etc. 


THE   BANNER  OF  BLUE 


J.N  The  Banner  of  Blue  Mr.  Crockett  offers  a 
new  version  of  that  most  wonderful  of  parables, 
the  prodigal  son.  Against  the  sombre  back- 
ground of  the  Disruption  Period  in  Scotland  he 
draws  with  a  master  hand  two  brilliantly  colored 
love-stories,  the  one  intense  to  its  tragic  end, 
the  other  delightful  in  its  quaint  Scotch  humor. 
The  character-drawing  possesses  in  particular 
the  quality  of  nearness  and  reality,  and  he  who 
reads  must  suffer  with  the  proud  Lord  of  Gower 
in  the  downfall  of  his  idolized  son,  laugh  with 
Veronica  Caesar  in  her  philosophical  bearing  of 
domestic  burdens  and  tyranny,  and  share  with 
John  Glendonw}Ti  his  love  for  the  will-o'-the- 
wisp  sweetheart,  Faerlie  Glendenning.  That 
part  of  the  story  dealing  with  the  separation 
of  church  and  state  calls  forth  not  only  the 
strongest  but  the  most  picturesque  traits  of  the 
Scottish  people. 
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X  HIS  is  by  far  the  most  mature  and  impoi*tant 
work  that  Mr.  Harris  has  yet  given  us.  Like 
David  Copperfield^  Gabriel  Tolliver  is  in- 
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of  Mr.  Harris"*  own  boyhood  experiences.  In 
so  far  as  its  setting  is  concerned  it  is  a  novel  of 
Reconstruction  in  the  South.  It  is  the  most 
perfect  picture  in  fiction  of  those  disheartening 
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THE   BLAZED   TRAIL 

A  STORY  OF  LOVE  AND  WAR  IN  THE  GREAT 
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Forty"  of  lumberjacks,  Mr.  White  has  given 
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types  of  the  pioneer  since  the  early  work  of 
Bret  Harte.  The  fierce  warfare  of  the  rival 
lumber  camps  is  tempered  by  an  idyllic  love- 
story.  In  this  book  the  Chicago  Inter  Ocean 
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